The  Book 

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^nTroDVcTiON  BY  HAy^MlJoNW.AABIE   .. 


FEB  22  2000 


BV45  .B66  1909 
Book  of  Christmas  / 


THE    BOOK   OF   CHRISTMAS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


U ic-  /3.— ^'^'»-^' 


THE   HOLY   NIGHT.     Correggio. 


Copyright,  1909, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1909.     Reprinted 
December,  1909. 


Nnrbjoolt  iPreBg 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


INTRODUCTION 

/^AROLS  are  still  sung  in  almost  numberless  churches, 
^'-'  lights  glow  on  altars  bound  and  wreathed  with  spruce 
and  holly,  trees  are  set  up  in  innumerable  homes,  and  mobs 
of  merry  children  sing  and  dance  around  them,  stockings 
take  on  grotesque  shapes  and  hang  gaping  with  treasures 
for  early  marauders  on  Christmas  morning,  and  hosts  of 
men  and  women  keep  the  day  in  their  hearts  in  all  peace 
and  piety. 

The  festival,  dear  to  the  heart  of  sixty  generations, 
has  survived  the  commercial  uses  which  it  has  been  com- 
pelled to  serve;  the  weariness  of  buying  and  selling  in  the 
vast  bazaar  of  nations,  stocked  with  all  manner  of  things 
which  stimulate  the  offerings  of  friendship;  the  wide- 
spread sense  of  irony  which  success  without  happiness 
breeds;  the  indifference  of  feeHng  and  satiety  of  emotion 
fostered  by  great  prosperity  without  that  grace  of  culture 
which  subdues  wealth  to  the  finer  uses  of  life.  It  has  sur- 
vived the  cynical  spirit  that  distrusts  sentiment  and  sneers 
at  emotion  as  weaknesses  which  have  no  place  in  a  scientific 
age  and  among  men  and  women  who  know  life.  It  has 
survived  that  preoccupation  with  affairs  which  leaves 
little  time  for  feelings,  and  that  resolute  determination  to 
make  men  good  which  leaves  scant  room  for  efforts  to  make 
them  happy. 


vi  Introduction 

But  even  in  this  age  of  hard-headed  practical  sagacity 
and  hard-minded  goodness  ruthlessly  bent  on  doing  the 
Lord's  work  by  the  methods  of  a  police  magistrate,  Christ- 
mas carols  are  still  sung;  and  the  organization  of  virtue 
in  numberless  societies  with  presidents  and  secretaries,  and, 
above  all,  with  treasurers,  has  not  dimmed  the  glow  of  the 
love  which  bears  fruit  in  a  forest  of  Christmas  trees,  with 
mobs  of  merry  children  shouting  around  them. 

The  plain  truth  is  that  the  world  is  not  half  so  heartless 
as  it  pretends  to  be.  In  its  desire  to  wear  that  air  of  weary 
omniscience  which  is  supposed  to  bear  witness  to  a  wide 
experience  of  life  it  often  pooh-poohs  appeals  which  make 
its  well-regulated  heart  beat  with  painful  irregularity. 
There  is  as  much  hypocrisy  in  the  scornful  as  in  the  senti- 
mental ;  and  the  worldly-wise  man  often  sniffles  behind  the 
handkerchief  with  which  he  pretends  to  stifle  a  sneeze.  We 
pretend  to  have  become  too  wise  to  be  moved  by  lighted  can- 
dles or  stirred  by  children's  voices  singing  of  angels  and 
shepherds ;  but  in  our  heart  of  hearts  the  old  story  is  dear  to 
us,  and  we  are  eager  eavesdroppers  when  the  ancient  mys- 
teries of  love  and  sympathy  and  friendship  are  talked  about 
by  the  poets  or  novelists. 

We  speak  patronizingly  of  those  old-fashioned  Christmas 
essays  in  the  "Sketch  Book,"  and  we  pretend  to  be  amused 
by  the  recollection  that  ''The  Christmas  Carol"  once  filled 
us  with  an  almost  insane  desire  to  make  somebody  happy. 
But  it  is  noticeable  that  the  old  text-books  of  Christmas 
sentiment  reappear  year  after  year  in  an  almost  endless 
variety  of  forms;  and  that  in  an  age  when  the  strong  man 
boasts  of  his  distrust  of  emotion,  and  the  strong  woman 
holds  sentiment  in  the  contempt  one  feels  for  out-grown 
toys,  books  that  have  to  do  with  Christmas  are  read  with 


Introduction  vii 

surreptitious  pleasure.  We  apologize  publicly  for  our  inter- 
est in  them  and  deprecate  the  attempt  to  revive  a  faded  inter- 
est and  recall  a  decayed  tradition;  but  in  private  we  read 
with  avidity  these  survivals  of  archaic  feeling  and  prehistoric 
emotion.  When  "The  Birds'  Christmas  Carol"  appeared, 
we  laughed  over  it  so  as  to  hide  our  tears.  Mr.  Janvier's 
charming  account  of  Christmas  ways  in  Provence  capti- 
vated us,  and  we  found  excuse  for  its  tender  regard  for  old 
habits  and  observances  in  the  fact  that  Mr.  Janvier  has  been 
in  the  habit  of  spending  a  good  deal  of  time  with  a  group  of 
unworldly  old  poets  who  still  dream  of  joy  and  beauty  as  the 
precious  things  of  life,  and  hold  to  the  fellowship  of  artists 
instead  of  forming  a  labor  union.  Mr.  Thomas  Nelson 
Page,  Mr.  F.  Marion  Crawford,  and  Mr.  F.  Hopkinson 
Smith  have  written  undisguised  Christmas  stories  with  as 
little  sense  of  detachment  from  modern  life  as  if  they 
were  telling  detective  tales;  and,  what  is  more  astonishing  to 
the  worldly-wise  man,  these  stories  have  a  glow  of  life,  a 
vitality  of  charm  and  sweetness  in  them,  that  make  scorn 
and  cynicism  seem  cheap  and  vulgar.  And  here  comes 
Dr.  Crothers  and  stirs  the  smouldering  Christmas  fire 
into  a  blaze  and  sits  down  before  it  as  if  it  were  real  logs  in 
combustion  and  not  a  trick  with  gas,  and  makes  gentle 
sport  of  the  wisdom  of  the  sceptic.  These  recent  revivals 
of  Christmas  literature  show  a  surprising  vitality,  and  have 
met  with  a  surprising  response  from  a  generation  popularly 
believed  to  be  given  over  to  the  making  of  money  and  the 
extirpation  of  human  feeling.  It  is  even  said  that  ther^  are 
men  and  women  of  such  insistent  hopefulness  that  they  an- 
ticipate a  time  when  the  aged  in  feeling,  the  worn-out  in 
sentiment,  the  infirm  in  imagination,  and  the  crippled  in 
heart  will  be  brought  again  within  sound  of  Christmas  bells. 


viii  Introduction 

There  is  little  hope  of  bringing  in  the  reign  of  good  feeling 
by  lighting  a  single  Christmas  fire,  but  a  long  line  of  such 
fires  touching  the  receding  horizon  of  the  past  with  a  happy 
glow  is  like  a  revival  of  a  fading  memory;  it  makes  us 
suddenly  aware  of  half-forgotten  associations  with  the  days 
that  were  once  full  of  life  and  rippling  with  merriment  like 
a  mountain  stream  suffused  with  sunlight.  We  surrender 
ourselves  so  completely  to  the  noisy  activities  of  our  own 
age  that  we  forget  how  infinitesimal  a  portion  of  time  it  is 
and  how  misleading  its  emphasis  often  is.  It  is  only  a  point 
on  the  face  of  the  dial ;  but  we  accept  it  as  if  it  were  a  present 
eternity,  a  final  stage  in  the  evolution  of  men.  That  many 
of  its  sacred  texts  are  the  maxims  of  a  short-sighted  prudence, 
many  of  its  major  interests  as  short-lived  as  the  passions  of 
children,  many  of  its  ideas  of  Hfe  the  cheapest  parvenus  in 
the  world  of  thought,  does  not  occur  to  us;  its  cynicisms 
are  often  reflections  of  its  spiritual  shallowness,  and  its 
scepticisms  mere  records  of  its  meanness  or  corruption. 
Like  all  the  times  that  have  gone  before  it,  it  is  a  fragment 
of  a  fragment,  and  the  only  way  to  see  life  whole  is  to  get 
away  from  it  and  look  down  on  it  as  it  takes  its  little  place 
in  the  larger  order  of  history. 

In  this  greater  order  of  time  the  long  line  of  Christmas 
fires  glows  like  a  great  truth  binding  the  fleeting  generations 
into  a  unity  of  faith  and  feeling.  When  we  light  our  fire,  we 
are  one  with  our  ancestors  of  a  thousand  years  ago;  we 
evade  the  isolation  of  our  time  and  escape  its  provincial 
narrowness ;  we  rejoin  the  race  from  whose  growth  we  have 
unconsciously  separated  ourselves;  we  open  long-unused 
rooms  and  are  amazed  to  find  how  large  the  house  of  life  is 
and  how  hospitable.  It  has  hearth  room  for  all  experience 
and  for  every  kind  of  emotion ;  for  the  thoughts  that  move 


Introduction  ix 

in  the  order  of  logic;  for  the  emotions  that  rise  and  fall  like 
great  tides  that  flow  in  from  the  infinite ;  for  the  vigor  that  is 
born  of  will,  and  for  the  power  evoked  by  discipHne.  It  is 
when  the  different  ages,  with  their  diversities  of  interest  and 
growth,  send  their  children  to  sit  together  before  the  Christ- 
mas fire  that  we  realize  how  wide  life  is,  and  how  impossible 
it  is  for  any  age  to  compass  it.  The  faith  against  which  one 
age  shuts  the  door  stands  serene  and  smiling  in  the  centre 
of  the  next  age ;  the  joy  which  one  generation  denies  itself 
lies  radiant  on  the  face  of  a  later  generation ;  the  imagination 
which  the  reign  of  logic  in  one  epoch  sends  into  the  wilder- 
ness returns  with  full  hands  to  be  the  master  of  a  wiser 
period. 

Before  the  Christmas  fire  that  for  two  thousand  years  has 
sunk  into  embers  to  blaze  again  into  a  great  light  at  the  end 
of  the  twelfth  month,  men  are  not  only  reunited  in  the  un- 
broken continuity  of  their  fortunes,  but  in  the  wholeness 
of  their  life ;  in  their  power  of  vision  as  well  as  of  sight, 
in  their  power  of  feeling  as  well  as  of  thought,  in  their  power 
of  love  as  well  as  of  action. 

This  large  hospitality  of  the  Christmas  fire,  before  which 
kings  and  beggars  sit  at  ease  and  every  human  faculty 
finds  its  place,  makes  room  for  every  gift  and  grace;  for 
reason,  with  severe  and  wrinkled  face;  for  sentiment, 
tender  and  reverent  of  all  sweet  and  beautiful  things;  for 
the  imagination,  seeing  heavenly  visions,  and  the  fancy 
catching  glimpses  of  quaint  or  grotesque  or  fairy-like 
images,  in  the  flame;  for  poetry,  singing  full-throated  with. 
Milton,  or  homely,  familiar  and  domestic  with  the  makers 
of  the  carols;  for  the  story-tellers,  spinning  their  fascinating 
tales  within  the  circle  of  the  embracing  glow;  for  humor, 
full  of  smiles  or  filling  the  room  with  Homeric  laughter;  for 


X  Introduction 

the  players,  whose  mimic  art  shows  the  manger,  the  shep- 
herds and  the  kings  to  successive  generations  crowding  the 
playhouse  with  the  eager  joy  of  children  or  with  the  sacred 
memories  of  age;  for  the  preachers,  to  whom  the  season 
brings  a  text  apart  from  the  disputes  and  antagonisms  of 
the  schools  and  churches;  for  companies  of  children,  im- 
patiently waiting  for  the  mysterious  noise  in  the  chimney; 
and  for  graybeards  recalling  old  days  and  ways,  —  yule 
logs,  country  dances,  waits  singing  under  the  frosty  sky, 
stage  coaches  bearing  guests  and  hampers  filled  with  dain- 
ties to  country  houses  standing  with  open  doors  and  broad 
hearths  for  the  fun  and  frolic,  the  tenderness  and  senti- 
ment, the  poetry  and  piety,  of  Christmas-tide. 

At  the  end  of  nearly  two  thousand  years  Christmas  shows 
no  signs  of  decrepitude  or  weariness ;  its  danger  lies  not  in 
forgetfulness  but  in  perverted  uses  and  overstimulated  ac- 
tivities. Its  commercial  availability  is  pushed  so  far  that 
its  sentiment  often  loses  spontaneity  and  charm  in  excessive 
organization  and  prodigal  distribution.  The  Christmas 
shopper  suffers  such  a  perversion  of  feeling  that  she  hates 
the  season  she  ought  to  bless ;  and  the  modern  Santa  Claus 
is  so  intent  on  the  ingenuity  or  the  cost  of  his  gifts  that  he 
overlooks  the  only  gift  that  warms  the  heart  and  translates 
Christmas  into  the  vernacular. 

If  Christmas  is  to  be  saved  from  desecration  and  kept 
sacred,  not  only  to  faith  but  to  friendship,  its  sentiment 
must  be  revived  year  by  year  in  the  joyful  celebration  of  the 
old  rites.  We  have  been  so  eager  of  late  years  to  rid  our- 
selves of  superstition  and  ''see  things  as  they  are,"  that  we 
have  lost  that  vision  of  the  large  relations  of  things  in  which 
alone  their  meaning  and  use  is  revealed.  We  have  studied 
the  field  at  our   doorsteps  so  thoroughly  that  we   have 


Introduction  xi 

lost  sight  of  the  landscape  in  which  its  little  cup  of  fruitful- 
ness  is  poured  as  into  a  great  bowl  rimmed  by  the  horizon. 
One  day  out  of  three  hundred  and  sixty-five,  detached  from 
its  ancient  history  and  isolated  from  the  celebrations  of 
centuries,  cannot  keep  our  hearts  and  hearths  warm ;  we 
must  rekindle  the  old  fires  and  join  hands  with  the  vanished 
companies  of  friends  who  have  kept  the  day  and  made  it 
merry  in  the  long  ago.  The  echoes  of  ancient  song  and 
laughter  give  it  a  rich  merriment,  a  ripe  and  tender  wealth 
of  associations.  The  mirth  of  one  Christmas  overflows  into 
another  until  the  sense  of  an  unbroken  joy,  sinking  and 
rising  year  after  year  like  the  tide  of  life  in  the  fields,  is 
borne  in  upon  us.  This  sense  of  the  unity  of  men  in  the 
great  experiences  steals  back  again  into  our  hearts  when  we 
hear  the  old  songs  and  read  the  old  stories.  Alexander 
Smith,  whose  book  of  essays,  "Dreamthorp,"  is  one  of  the 
books  of  the  heart,  —  for  there  are  books  of  the  heart  as 
well  as  books  of  knowledge  and  books  of  power,  —  kindled 
his  imagination  into  a  responsive  glow  by  rereading  every 
Christmas  Day  Milton's  "Ode  on  the  Morning  of  Christ's 
Nativity."  When  one  opens  the  volume  at  this  great  song, 
it  is  like  going  into  a  church  and  hearing  the  organ  played 
by  unseen  hands;  the  silence  is  flooded  by  a  vast  music 
which  lifts  the  heart  into  the  presence  of  great  mysteries. 
But  there  is  a  time  for  private  devotions  as  well  as  for  public 
worship,  for  domestic  as  well  as  religious  celebrations;  and 
for  every  hour  and  place  and  mood  there  is  a  song  and  story. 
There  are  tender  hymns  for  the  devout,  and  spirited  songs  for 
those  who  celebrate  together  old  days  and  ancient  friend- 
ships; there  are  quaint  carols  for  those  whose  hearts  long 
for  the  quiet  and  pleasant  ways  of  an  olden  time,  and  there 
are  roaring  catches  for  those  whose  gayety  rises  to  the  flood; 


xii  Introduction 

there  are  meditations  for  the  solitary,  and  there  are  stories 
for  the  little  groups  about  the  fire. 

A  Book  of  Christmas  is  a  text-book  of  piety,  friendship, 
merriment ;  a  record  of  the  real  business  of  the  race,  which 
is  not  to  make  money,  but  to  make  life  full  and  sweet  and 
satisfying.  It  is  a  book  to  put  into  the  hands  of  young  men 
eager  to  start  on  the  race  and  of  young  women  to  whom  the 
future  holds  out  a  dazzling  vision  of  a  prosperity  of  pleasure 
and  success;  for  it  translates  the  word  on  all  lips  into  its 
only  comprehensible  terms.  In  the  glow  of  the  Christmas 
fire  the  man  who  has  made  a  fortune  without  making  friends 
is  a  tragic  failure,  and  the  woman  who  has  won  the  place  and 
power  she  saw  shining  with  delusive  splendor  on  the  far 
horizon  and  missed  happiness  faces  one  of  life's  bitterest 
ironies.  It  is  a  book  for  those  who  have  fallen  under  the 
delusion  that  action  is  the  only  form  of  effective  expression, 
and  that  to  be  useful  one  nmst  rush  along  the  road  with  the 
ruthless  speed  of  an  automobile;  forgetting  that  action  is 
only  a  path  to  being,  and  that  the  joy  of  life  is  largely  found 
by  the  way.  It  is  a  book  for  those  ardent  spirits  to  whom 
the  one  interest  in  life  is  making  people  over  and  fitting 
them  into  their  places  in  a  rigid  order  of  arbitrary  good- 
ness, forgetting  that  to  the  heart  of  a  child  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  is  always  open,  and  the  ultimate  grace  of  it  is  the 
purity  which  is  free  and  unconscious.  It  is  a  book  for  the 
sceptical  and  cynical,  whose  blighted  sympathy  and  insight 
regain  their  vitality  in  the  atmosphere  of  its  love  and  kind- 
ness, its  fun  and  frolic,  its  fellowship  of  loyal  hearts  and  true. 

Above  all,  the  Book  of  Christmas  is  a  book  of  joy  in  the 
sadness  of  the  world,  a  book  of  play  in  the  work  of  the 
world,  a  book  of  consolation  in  the  sorrow  of  the  world. 

Hamilton  W.  Mabie 


CONTENTS 


FAGE 

Introduction    ....         Hamilton  W.  Mabie      v 


SIGNS  OF  THE   SEASON 

"  The  Time  draws  near  the  Birth  of  Christ "  Alfred  Tennyson  4 

An  Hue  and  Cry  after  Christmas  .     Old  English  Tract  5 

The  Doge's  Christmas  Shooting  .         F.  Marion  Crawford  6 

Thursday  Processions  in  Advent .         .     William  S.  Walsh  7 

The  Glastonbury  1  horn        .         Alexander  F.  Chamberlain  9 


In  the  Kitchen     . 
Christmas  in  England  . 
Christmas  Invitation    . 
A  Christmas  Market    . 


.    Old  English  Ballad  1 1 

.    Washington  Irving  12 

William  Barries  16 

Mrs.  Alfred  Sidgwick  1 7 


The  Star  of  Bethlehem  in  Holland       .     Bow-Bells  Annual  18 
The  Pickwick  Club  goes  down  to  Dingley  Dell 

Charles  Dickens  19 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas     .         .         .      Clement  C.  Moore  24 

Crowded  Out Rosalie  M.  Jonas  26 

II 

HOLIDAY   SAINTS  AND   LORDS 
My  Lord  of  Misrule T.  K.  Hervey     31 


32 


St.  Nicholas Collated 

An  Old  Saint  in  a  New  World  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer  t^t^ 

St.  Thomas Collated,  W.  P.  R.  35 

Kriss  Kringle       ....      Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  36 

II  Santissimo  Bambino         .         .         .     Collated^  W.  P.  R.  37 

xiii 


XIV 


Contents 


PAGE 

The  Christ  Child          .... 

.       Elise  Traut 

38 

The  April  Baby  is  Thankful 

.       "  Elizabeth  " 

38 

Good  King  Wenceslas 

Old  English  Carol 

41 

Jean  Valjean  plays  the  Christmas  Saint 

Victor  Hugo 

42 

St.  Brandan 

Matthew  Arnold 

45 

St.  Stephen's,  or  Boxing  Day 

Collated,  W.  P.  R. 

47 

St.  Basil  in  Trikkola    .... 

J.  Theodore  Bent 

48 

III 

CHRISTMAS   CUSTOMS   AND   BELIEFS 

The  Nativity  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 

From  "  llie  Golden  Legend'''' 
Folk-lore  of  Christmas  Tide  Collected  by  A.  F.  Chamberlain 
Hunting  the  Wren       .         .         .     Quoted  by  T.  K.  Hervey 

The  Presepio Hone's  Year  Book 

Hodening  in  Kent       .      Contributed  to  The  Church  Times 
Origin  of  the  Christmas  Tree       .         .     William  S.  Walsh 


Origin  of  the  Christmas  Card 

The  Yule  Clog     . 

**  Come  bring  with  a  Noise  " 

Shoe  or  Stocking 

Jule-Nissen 

"Lame  Needles"  in  Euboea 

Who  Rides  behind  the  Bells? 

Guests  at  Yule     . 


William  S.  Walsh 
.    T.  K.  Hervey 
Robert  Herrick 
Edith  M.  Thomas 
Jacob  Riis 
J.  Theodore  Bent 
Zona  Gale 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 


55 
58 
61 
64 

65 
66 
67 
68 
69 
70 

71 

1Z 
76 

78 


IV 

CHRISTMAS   CAROLS 


"  I  saw  Three  Ships  " 
"Lordings,  listen  to  Our  Lay 
The  Cherry-Tree  Carol 
"In  Excelsis  Gloria"   . 


Old  English  Carol 

Earliest  Existing  Carol 

.     Old  English  Carol 

From  the  Harleian  MSS. 


"  God  Rest  You  Merry,  Gentlemen ' 


Old  English  Carol 


83 

84 
86 

87 
87 


Contents  xv 

PAGE 

The  Golden  Carol        .         .         .         .Old  English  Carol  89 
Caput  apri  refero  resonens  laudes  domino 

From  a  Balliol  MS.  of  about  1^40  90 

"  Villagers  All,  this  Frosty  Tide  "           .    Kenneth  Grahame  90 

Holly  Song           ....         William  Shakespeare  92 

"  Before  the  Paling  of  the  Stars  "           Christina  G.  Rossetti  92 
The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  Tune 

William  Wordsworth  93 

A  Carol  from  the  Old  French       .       Henry  W.  Longfellow  95 

"From  Far  Away  we  come  to  you"    .      Old  English  Carol  97 

A  Christmas  Carol       .         .         .         James  Russell  Lowell  98 

A  Christmas  Carol  for  Children   .         .           Martin  Luther  99 


CHRISTMAS  DAY 

The  Unbroken  Song  .  .  .  Henry  W.  Longfelloiv  104 
A  Scene  of  Mediaeval  Christmas  John  Addington  Symonds  105 
Christmas  in  Dreamthorp  .  .  .  Alexander  Smith  ill 
By  the  Christmas  Fire  .         .  Hamilton  W.  Mabie  113 

Ode  on  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity  .  John  Milton  114 
Christmas  Church  ....  Washington  Irving  119 
Dolly  urges  Silas  Marner  to  go  to  Church  .  George  Eliot  124 
Yule  in  the  Old  Town  ....  Jacob  Riis  127 

The  Mahogany  Tree    .  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  132 

The  Holly  and  the  Ivy         .         .  .        Old  English  Song  134 

Ballade  of  Christmas  Ghosts         .         .         .    Andrezv  Lang  it,^ 

Christmas  Treasures Eugene  Field  136 

Wassailer's  Song  ....        Robert  Southwell  138 

VI 

CHRISTMAS   HYMNS 

A  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  ....  Ben  Jonson  143 
While  Shepherds  Watched  .         .         .     Nahum  Tate  144 


Phillips  Brooks  145 

Margaret  Deland  146 

Edi7iiind  H.  Sears  idt"] 

.     Eugene  Field  149 

Edwin  Alarkham   150 


xvi  Contents 


O,  Little  Town  of  Bethlehem 

The  First,  Best  Christmas  Night  . 

It  Came  upon  the  Midnight  Clear 

A  Christmas  Hymn 

The  Song  of  the  Shepherds 

A  Christmas  Hymn      .         .         .     Richard  Watson  Gilder  152 

A  Christmas  Hymn  for  Children  Josephine  Daskam  Bacon  153 

Slumber-Songs  of  the  Madonna  .        .         .     Alfred  Noyes  154 

VII 

CHRISTMAS   REVELS 

"  Make  me  Merry  both  More  and  Less  " 

Old  Balliol  MS.  of  about  1^40  164 

The  Feast  of  Saint  Stephen  in  Venice  F.  Marion  Crawford  165 

The  Feast  of  Fools William  Hone  167 

The  Feast  of  the  Ass William  Hone  168 

The  Revel  of  Sir  Hugonin  de  Guisay  .... 

William  S.  Walsh  170 

Revels  of  the  Inns  of  Court  .         .         .     T.  K.  Hervey  172 

King  Witlaf's  Drinking-Horn      .       Henry  W.  Longfelloiu  175 

Old  Christmastide        ....        Sir  Walter  Scott  176 
Christmas  Games  in  "  Old  Wardle's  "  Kitchen 

Charles  Dickens  179 

A  "Mystery"  as  performed  in  Mexico  Bayard  Taylor  183 

VIII 

WHEN   ALL  THE   WORLD   IS   KIN 

Christmas  Night  of  '62         .  William  Gordon  McCabe  191 

Merry  Christmas  in  the  Tenements      .         .  Jacob  Riis  192 

Christmas  at  Sea  .         .         .      Robert  Louis  Stevenson  200 

The  First  Christmas  Tree  in  the  Legation  Compound,  Tokyo 

Mary  Crawford  Eraser  202 


Contents 


xvn 


PAGE 

Christmas  in  India  ....  Rudyard  Kipling  208 
A  Belgian  Christmas  Eve  Procession  All  the  Year  Round  210 
Christmas  at  the  Cape  ....      John  Riincie  215 

The  "  Good  Night  "  in  Spain 


Christmas  in  Rome 
Christmas  in  Burgundy 
Christmas  in  Germany 


Fernan  Cahallero  21 6 

John  Addington  Sytnonds  218 

M.  Fertiault  222 

.  Amy  Fay  225 


Christmas  Dinner  in  a  Clipper's  Fo'c'sle 

Herbert  Elliot  Hamblen  227 
Christmas  in  Jail  ....         Rolf  Boldrewood  229 

Colonel  Carter's  Christmas  Tree  .  F.  Hopkinson  Smith  231 

IX 

CHRISTMAS   STORIES 


Christmas  Roses  • 
The  Fir  Tree 
The  Christmas  Banquet 
A  Christmas  Eve  in  Exile 


Zona  Gale  241 

Hans  Christian  Andersen  245 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  257 

Alphonse  Dandet  275 


The  Rehearsal  of  the  Mummers'  Play  .  Eden  Phillpotts  280 


X 


NEW  YEAR 

New  Year Richard  Watson  Gilder  298 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year     Henry  IV,  Longfelloiv  299 
The  Death  of  the  Old  Year  .         .        Alfred  Tennyson  301 


A  New  Year's  Carol     . 
New  Year's  Resolutions 
Love  and  Joy  come  to  You 
Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells  . 


Martin  Ltither  303 

"  Elizabeth  "  303 

Old  English  Carol  305 

Alfred  Tennyson  307 
Ja?}ies  Russell  Lozvell  308 
Rejoicings  upon  the  New  Year's  Coming  of  Age 

Charles  Lamb  309 


XVlll 


Contents 


New  Year's  Rites  in  the  Highlands 
The  Chinese  New  Year 
New  Year's  Gifts  in  Thessaly 
"  Smashing  "  in  the  New  Year     . 
New  Year  Calls  in  Old  New  York 


PAGE 

Charles  Rogers  315 
H.  C.  Sirr  316 
/.  Theodore  Bent  319 
Jacob  Riis  322 
William  S.  Walsh  323 


Sylvester  Abend  in  Davos 


.  John  Addington  Symonds  325 


XI 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  —  EPIPHANY 


"  Now  have  Good  Day  1 "   . 

A  Twelfth  Night  Superstition 

Twelfth-Day  Table  Diversion 

The  Blessing  of  the  Waters 

La  Galette  du  Roi 

Drawing  King  and  Queen  . 

St.  DistafPs  Day  and  Plough  Monday 


Old  English  Carol  337 

Barnaby  Googe  338 

.  John  Nott  339 

J,  Theodore  Bent  341 

.  William  Hone  344 

Universal  Magazine  345 

Hone's  Year  Book  346 


XII 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SPIRIT 

"  As  Little  Children  in  a  Darkened  Hall " 

Charles  Henry  Crandall  350 


Christmas  Dreams 

The  Professor's  Christmas  Sermon 

Awaiting  the  King 

Elizabeth's  Christmas  Sermon 

Nichola's  "  Reason  Why  "  . 

The  Changing  Spirit  of  Christmastide 

A  Prayer  for  Christmas  Peace 

Under  the  Holly  Bough 

Christmas  Music  . 

A  Christmas  Sermon  . 


Christopher  North  351 

Robert  Browning  358 

F.  Marion  Crawford  359 

"  Elizabeth  "  361 

Zona  Gale  362 

Washington  Irving  363 

Charles  Kingsley  365 

Charles  Mackay  366 

John  Addington  Symonds  367 

Rdbert  Louis  Stevenson  368 


Contents 


XIX 


LIST   OF   PLATES 


The  Holy  Night        .... 

Correggio 

Frontispiece 

The  Holy  Night        .... 

C.  Miiller 

PAGE 

facing     16 

The  Arrival  of  the  Shepherds    . 

Lerolle    . 

.     „        40 

The  Bells 

Blashfield 

72 

The  Madonna 

Bellini  . 

„        96 

The  Virgin  adoring  the  Infant  Christ 

Correggio 

„      120 

The  Madonna 

Murillo . 

M            152 

Holy  Night 

Van  Ulade 

„            184 

The  Holy  Family  with  the  Shepherds 

Titian   . 

„           216 

Madonna  della  Sedia 

Raphael 

„           272 

The  Adoration  of  the  Magi 

Paolo  Veronese    „      304 

The  Adoration  of  the  Magi 

Memling 

»     344 

I 

SIGNS   OF  THE   SEASON 


SIGNS  OF  THE   SEASON 


An  Hue  and  Cry  after  Christmas 

The  Doge's  Christmas  Shooting 

Thursday  Processions  in  Advent 

The  Glastonbury  Thorn 

In  the  Kitchen 

Christmas  in  England 

Christmas  Invitation 

A  Christmas  Market 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  in  Holland 

The  Pickwick  Club  goes  down  to  Dingley  Dell 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas 

Crowded  Out 


'T^HE  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ: 
-*-    The  moon  is  hid;   the  night  is  still; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 
Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 

From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound: 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  goodwill,  goodwill  and  peace. 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


An  Hue  and  Cry  after  Christmas     ^     ^^     ^> 

"Any  man  or  woman  .  .  .  iJtat  can  give  any 
knowledge,  or  tell  any  tidings,  of  an  old,  old,  very  old 
gray-bearded  gentleman,  called  Christmas,  who  was 
wont  to  be  a  verie  familiar  ghest,  and  visile  all  sorts  of 
people  both  pore  and  rich,  and  used  to  appear  in  glitter- 
ing gold,  silk,  and  silver,  in  the  Court,  and  in  all  shapes 
in  the  Theater  in  Whitehall,  and  had  ringing,  feasts, 
and  jollitie  in  all  places,  both  in  the  citie  and  coicntrie, 
for  his  comming:  .  .  .  whosoever  can  tel  what  is  become 
of  him,  or  where  he  may  be  found,  let  them  bring  him 
back  againe  into  England." 

'T^HAT  curious  little  tract  "An  Hue  and  Cry  after  Christ- 
-■-  mas  "  bears  the  date  of  1645;  ^^^  we  shall  best  give 
our  readers  an  idea  of  its  character  by  setting  out  that 
title  at  length,  as  the  same  exhibits  a  tolerable  abstract 
of  its  contents.  It  runs  thus:  *'The  arraignment,  convic- 
tion, and  imprisoning  of  Christmas  on  St.  Thomas  day 
last,  and  how  he  broke  out  of  prison  in  the  holidayes  and 
got  away,  onely  left  his  hoary  hair  and  gray  beard  stick- 
ing between  two  iron  bars  of  a  window.  With  an  Hue  and 
Cry  after  Christmas,  and  a  letter  from  Mr.  Woodcock,  a 
fellow  in  Oxford,  to  a  malignant  lady  in  London.  And 
divers  passages  between  the  lady  and  the  cryer  about  Old 
Christmas;  and  what  shift  he  was  fain  to  make  to  save 
his  life,  and  great  stir  to  fetch  him  back  again.  Printed 
by  Simon  Minc'd  Pye  for  Cissely  Plum-Porridge,  and  are 
to  be  sold  by  Ralph  Fidler  Chandler  at  the  signe  of  the 
Pack  of  Cards  in  Mustard  Alley  in  Brawn  Street." 

Besides  the  allusions  contained  in  the  latter  part  of  this 

title  to  some  of  the  good  things  that  follow  in  the  old  man's 

train,  great  pains  are  taken  by  the  "cryer"  in  describing 

him,  and  by  the  lady  in  mourning  for  him,  to  allude  to 

5 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

many  of  the  cheerful  attributes  that  made  him  dear  to  the 
people.  His  great  antiquity  and  portly  appearance  are 
likewise  insisted  upon.  "For  age  this  hoarie-headed  man 
was  of  great  yeares,  and  as  white  as  snow.  He  entered 
the  Romish  Kallendar,  time  out  of  mind,  as  old  or  very 
neer  as  Father  Mathusalem  was,  —  one  that  looked  fresh 
in  the  Bishops'  time,  though  their  fall  made  him  pine  away 
ever  since.  He  was  full  and  fat  as  any  divine  doctor  of 
them  all ;  he  looked  under  the  consecrated  lawne  sleeves 
as  big  as  Bul-beefe,  — just  like  Bacchus  upon  a  tunne  of 
wine,  when  the  grapes  hang  shaking  about  his  eares;  but 
since  the  Catholike  liquor  is  taken  from  him  he  is  much 
wasted,  so  that  he  hath  looked  very  thin  and  ill  of  late." 
"The  poor,"  says  the  "cryer"  to  the  lady,  "are  sory  for" 
his  departure;  "for  they  go  to  every  door  a-begging,  as 
they  were  wont  to  do  (good  Mrs.,  Somewhat  against  this 
good  time);  but  Time  was  transformed.  Away,  he  gone; 
here  is  not  for  you.^'  The  lady,  however,  declares  that 
she  for  one  will  not  be  deterred  from  welcoming  old  Christ- 
mas. "No,  no!"  says  she;  "bid  him  come  by  night  over 
the  Thames,  and  we  will  have  a  back-door  open  to  let  him 
in;"  and  ends  by  anticipating  better  prospects  for  him 

another  year. 

T.  K.  Hervey 

The  Doge's  Christmas  Shooting        ^^:>     -^^     ^^^ 

A  T  certain  fixed  times  the  Doge  was  allowed  the  relaxa- 
-^^  tion  of  shooting,  but  with  so  many  restrictions  and 
injunctions  that  the  sport  must  have  been  intolerably  irk- 
some. He  was  allowed  or,  more  strictly  speaking,  was 
ordered  to  proceed  for  this  purpose,  and  about  Christmas 
6 


signs  of  the  Season 

time,  to  certain  islets  in  the  lagoons,  where  wild  ducks 
bred  in  great  numbers.  On  his  return  he  was  obliged  to 
present  each  member  of  the  Great  Council  with  five  ducks. 
This  was  called  the  gift  of  the  ''Oselle,"  that  being  the 
name  given  by  the  people  to  the  birds  in  question.  In 
152 1,  about  five  thousand  brace  of  birds  had  to  be  killed  or 
snared  in  order  to  fulfil  this  requirement;  and  if  the  un- 
happy Doge  was  not  fortunate  enough,  with  his  attendants, 
to  secure  the  required  number,  he  was  obliged  to  provide 
them  by  buying  them  elsewhere  and  at  any  price,  for  the 
claims  of  the  Great  Council  had  to  be  satisfied  in  any  case. 
This  was  often  an  expensive  affair. 

There  was  also  another  personage  who  could  not  have 
derived  much  enjoyment  from  the  Christmas  shooting. 
This  was  the  Doge's  chamberlain,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
see  to  the  just  distribution  of  the  game,  so  that  each  bunch 
of  two-and-a-half  brace  should  contain  a  fair  average  of  fat 
and  thin  birds,  lest  it  should  be  said  that  the  Doge  showed 
favour  to  some  members  of  the  Council  more  than  to  others. 

By  and  by  a  means  was  sought  of  commuting  this  annual 
tribute  of  ducks.  The  Doge  Antonio  Grimani  requested 
and  obtained  permission  to  coin  a  medal  of  the  value  of  a 
quarter  of  a  ducat,  equal  to  about  four  shillings  or  one 
dollar,  and  to  call  it  "a  Duck,"  "Osella,"  whereby  it  was 
signified  that  it  took  the  place  of  the  traditional  bird. 

F.  Marion  Crawtord  in  Salve  Veneiia! 

Thursday  Processions  in  Advent     ^:>     ^^     <:> 

HTHE  Eve  of  the  festival  of  St.  Nicholas,  December  5, 

■^    in  mediaeval  days  was  the  occasion  when  choir  and 

altar  boys  met  and  in  solemn  mimicr}''  of  the  procedure  of 

7 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

their  elders  elected  a  boy-bishop  and  his  prebendaries  who 
remained  in  office  and  moreover  exercised  practically  full 
episcopal  functions  until  Holy  Innocents  Day. 

In  the  full  vestments  of  the  church  these  minor  clergy 
made  "visitations"  in  the  neighborhood  usually  on  three 
successive  Thursdays,  and  collected  small  sums  of 
money  known  as  the  "Bishop's  Subsidy."  Says  Barnaby 
Googe :  — 

"Three  weeks  before  the  day  whereon  was  borne  the  Lorde  of 

Grace, 
And  on  the  Thursdays  boyes  and  gyrles  do  runne  in  every  place 
And  bounce  and  beat  at  every  doore,  with  blowes  and  lustie  snaps 
And  crie  the  Advent  of  the  Lord,  not  borne  as  yet  perhaps, 
And  wishing  to  the  neighbors  all,  that  in  the  houses  dwell, 
A  happy  year,  and  everything  to  spring  and  prosper  well; 
Here  have  they  peares,  and  plumbs  and  pence,  each  man  gives 

Willi  nglie. 
For  these  three  nights  are  always  thought  unfortunate  to  bee. 
Where  in  they  are  afrayde  of  sprites,  cankred  witches  spight. 
And  dreadful  devils  blacke  and  grim,  that  then  have  chief  est  might. 

:|c  3|c  :)«  *  *  4:  !|( 

In  these  same  dayes  yong,  wanton  gyrles  that  meete  for  marriage 

bee, 
Doe  search  to  know  the  names  of  them  that  shall  their  husbands  bee 
Four  onyons,  five,  or  eight,  they  take,  and  make  in  every  one 
Such  names  as  they  do  fansie  most  and  best  do  think  upon; 
Thus  neere  the  chimney  them  they  set,  and  that  same  onyon  than, 
That  first  doth  sproute,  doth  surely  beare  the  name  of  their  good 

man." 

In  these  same  December  nights  it  is  that  these  "yong 
gyrles,"  according  to  Barnaby,  creep  to  the  woodpile  after 
nightfaii  and  at  random  each  pulls  out  the  first  stick  the 
hand  touches. 

'Which  if  it  streight  and  even  be,  and  have  no  knots  at  all, 
A  gentle  husband  then  they  thinke  shall  surlie  to  them  fall; 

8 


Signs  of  the  Season 

But  if  it  fowle  and  crooked  bee,  and  knotties  here  and  there, 
A  crabbed  churlish  husband  then  they  earnest!}'  do  feare." 

In  the  last  days  before  Christmas,  says  Lady  Morgan, 
Italian  pifferari  descend  from  the  mountains  to  Naples  and 
Rome  in  order  to  play  their  pipes  before  the  pictures  of 
the  Virgin  and  the  Child,  and  —  out  of  compliment  to 
Joseph  —  in  front  of  the  carpenters'  shops. 

Somewhat  akin  is  the  old  English  custom  of  the  carry- 
ing about  the  images  of  the  Virgin  and  Christ  in  the  week 
before  Christmas,  by  poor  women  who  expect  a  dole  from 
every  house  visited. 

In  certain  parts  of  Normandy  the  farmers  give  to  their 
children,  or  to  little  ones  borrowed  from  their  neighbors, 
prepared  torches,  well  dried;  with  which  these  little  folk 
—  no  one  over  twelve  is  eligible  for  the  office  —  run  hither- 
and  yon,  under  the  tree  boughs,  into  fence  corners,  singing 
the  spell  supposed  to  command  the  vermin  of  the  field. 
W.  S.  Walsh  gives  this  translation  of  their  incantation:  — 

Mice,  caterpillars,  and  moles. 
Get  out,  get  out  of  my  field ;  or 
I  will  burn  your  blood  and  bones: 

Trees  and  shrubs, 
Give  me  bushels  of  apples. 

Condensed  from  Some  Curiosities  of  Popular  Customs. 


The  Glastonbury  Thorn  and   other  Plant   Lore 
of  Christmastide     <:>     ^^      -<:>      ^>      ^^ 

T^HE  legend  of  the  Glastonbury  Thorn  is  that  after  the 

^    death  of  Christ  Joseph  of  Arimathea  came  over  to 

England  and  a  few  days  before  Christmas  rested  on  the 

9 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

summit  of  Weary-all  Hill,  Glastonbury.  There  he  thrust 
into  the  ground  his  staff  which  on  Christmas  Eve  was 
found  to  be  covered  with  snow  white  blossoms;  and  until 
it  was  destroyed  during  the  Civil  wars  the  bush  continued 
so  to  bloom,  as  cuttings  from  the  original  thorn  are  said 
to  bloom  in  the  same  wonderful  way  even  yet ;  but,  with  a 
fine  disregard  for  the  Gregorian  reformation  of  the  Calen- 
dar, the  blossoms  do  not  appear  until  the  5th  of  January. 

The  Sicilian  children,  so  Folkard  tells  us,  put  pennyroyal 
in  their  cots  on  Christmas  Eve,  "under  the  belief  that  at 
the  exact  hour  and  minute  when  the  infant  Jesus  was  born 
this  plant  puts  forth  its  blossom."  Another  belief  is  that 
the  blossoming  occurs  again  on  Midsummer  Night. 

In  the  East  the  Rose  of  Jericho  is  looked  upon  with  fa- 
vour by  women  with  child,  for  ''there  is  a  cherished  legend 
that  it  first  blossomed  at  our  Saviour's  birth,  closed  at  the 
Crucifixion,  and  opened  again  at  Easter,  whence  its  name 
of  Resurrection  Flower." 

Gerarde,  the  old  herbalist,  tells  us  that  the  black  helle- 
bore is  called  ''Christ's  Herb,"  or  "Christmas  Herb," 
because  it  "flowreth  about  the  birth  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ." 

Many  plants,  trees,  and  flowers  owe  their  peculiarities 
to  their  connection  with  the  birth  or  the  childhood  of 
Christ.  The  Ornithogalum  umhellatum  is  called  the  "Star 
of  Bethlehem,"  according  to  Folkard,  because  "its  white 
stellate  flowers  resemble  the  pictures  of  the  star  that  in- 
dicated the  birth  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind."  The  Galium 
verum,  "Our  Lady's  Bedstraw,"  receives  its  name  from 
the  belief  that  the  manger  in  which  the  infant  Jesus  lay 
was  filled  with  this  plant. 

"The  brooms  and  the  chick-peas  began  to  rustle  and 
10 


Signs  of  the  Season 

crackle,  and  by  this  noise  betrayed  the  fugitives.  The 
flax  bristled  up.  Happily  for  her,  Mary  was  near  a 
juniper;  the  hospitable  tree  opened  its  branches  as  arms 
and  enclosed  the  Virgin  and  the  Child  within  their  folds, 
affording  them  a  secure  hiding-place.  Then  the  Virgin 
uttered  a  malediction  against  the  brooms  and  the  chick- 
peas, and  ever  since  that  day  they  have  always  rustled 
and  crackled."  The  story  goes  on  to  tell  us  that  the  Vir- 
gin "pardoned  the  flax  its  weakness,  and  gave  the  juniper 
her  blessing,"  which  accounts  for  the  use  of  the  latter  in 
some  countries  for  Christmas  decorations,  —  like  the  holly 
in  England  and  France. 

"One  Christmas  Eve  a  peasant  felt  a  great  desire  to  eat 
cabbage  and,  having  none  himself,  he  slipped  into  a  neigh- 
bour's garden  to  cut  some.  Just  as  he  had  filled  his 
basket,  the  Christ-Child  rode  past  on  his  white  horse,  and 
said:  'Because  thou  hast  stolen  on  the  holy  night,  thou 
shalt  immediately  sit  in  the  moon  with  thy  basket  of  cab- 
bage.' "  And  so,  we  are  told,  "the  culprit  was  immediately 
wafted  up  to  the  moon,"  and  there  he  can  still  be  seen  as 
"  the  man  in  the  moon." 

Alexander  F.  Chamberlain 


The  Signs  of  the  Season  in  the  Kitchen   ^:y     ^^^^ 

"  nPHE  cooks  shall  be  busied,  by  day  and  by  night, 
■^    In  roasting  and  boiling,  for  taste  and  delight, 
Their  senses  in  liquor  that's  happy  they'll  steep, 
Though  they  be  afforded  to  have  Httle  sleep; 
They  still  are  employed  for  to  dress  us,  in  brief, 
Plum-pudding,  goose,  capon,  minc'd-pies,  and  roast  beel 
II 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"Although  the  cold  weather  doth  hunger  provoke, 
'Tis  a  comfort  to  see  how  the  chimneys  do  smoke; 
Provision  is  making  for  beer,  ale,  and  wine, 
For  all  that  are  wiUing  or  ready  to  dine: 
Then  haste  to  the  kitchen  for  diet  the  chief, 
Plum-pudding,  goose,  capon,  minc'd-pies,  and  roast  beef. 

"  All  travellers,  as  they  do  pass  on  their  way. 
At  gentlemen's  halls  are  invited  to  stay, 
Themselves  to  refresh  and  their  horses  to  rest. 
Since  that  he  must  be  old  Christmas's  guest; 
Nay,  the  poor  shall  not  want,  but  have  for  relief 
Plum -pudding,  goose,  capon,  minc'd-pies,  and  roast  beef." 
From  Evans'  Collection  of  English  Ballads 


Christmas  in  England     ^^     "^:> 


<:^ 


THERE  is  nothing  in  England  that  exercises  a  more 
delightful  spell  over  my  imagination  than  the  linger- 
ings  of  the  holiday  customs  and  rural  games  of  former 
times.  They  recall  the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw 
in  the  May  morning  of  life  when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the 
world  through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that  poets 
had  painted  it;  and  they  bring  with  them  the  flavour  of 
those  honest  days  of  yore,  in  which,  perhaps  with  equal 
fallacy,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  world  was  more  home-bred, 
social,  and  joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret  to  say  that 
they  are  daily  growing  more  and  more  faint,  being  gradu- 
ally worn  away  by  time,  but  still  more  obliterated  by  mod- 
ern fashion.  They  resemble  those  picturesque  morsels  of 
Gothic  architecture  which  we  see  crumbling  in  various  parts 
of  the  country,  partly  dilapidated  by  the  waste  of  ages,  and 

12 


Signs  of  the  Season 

partly  lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  latter  days. 
Poetry,  however,  clings  with  cherishing  fondness  about  the 
rural  game  and  holiday  revel,  from  which  it  has  derived 
so  many  of  its  themes  —  as  the  ivy  winds  its  rich  foliage 
about  the  Gothic  arch  and  mouldering  tower,  gratefully 
repaying  their  support  by  clasping  together  their  tottering 
remains,  and,  as  it  were,  embalming  them  in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,   however,   that  of  Christmas 
awakens  the   strongest   and  most   heartfelt  associations. 
There  is  a  tone  of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends 
with  our  conviviality,  and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hal- 
lowed and  elevated  enjoyment.    The  services  of  the  church 
about   this   season   are   extremely   tender  and   inspiring. 
They  dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of  our  faith, 
and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its  announce- 
ment.    They  gradually  increase  in   fervour  and  pathos 
during  the  season  of  Advent,  until  they  break  forth  in 
jubilee  on  the  morning  that  brought  peace  and  good-will 
to  men.     I  do  not  know  a  grander  effect  of  music  on  the 
moral  feelings  than  to  hear  the  full  choir  and  the  pealing 
organ  performing  a  Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and 
filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant  harmony. 
It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also  derived  from  days 
of  yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been  made 
the  season  for  gathering  together  of  family  connections, 
and  drawing  closer  again  those  bonds  of  kindred  hearts 
which  the  cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the  world  are 
continually  operating  to  cast  loose;    of  calling  back  the 
children  of  a  family  who  have  launched  forth  in  life,  and 
wandered  widely  asunder,  once  more  to  assemble  about  the 
paternal  hearth,  that  rallying-place  of  the  affections,  there 
13 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

to  grow  young  and  loving  again  among  the  endearing  me- 
mentoes of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year  that 
gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other  times 
we  derive  a  great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere 
beauties  of  nature. 

sf:  *****  * 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,  I  rode 
for  some  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches,  on  the  day 
preceding  Christmas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both  in- 
side and  out,  with  passengers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed 
principally  bound  to  the  mansions  of  relations  and  friends 
to  eat  the  Christmas  dinner.  It  was  loaded  also  with 
hampers  of  game,  and  baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies; 
and  hares  hung  dangling  their  long  ears  about  the  coach- 
man's box  —  presents  from  distant  friends  for  the  impend- 
ing feasts.  I  had  three  fine  rosy-cheeked  schoolboys  for 
my  fellow-passengers  inside,  full  of  the  buxom  health  and 
manly  spirits  which  I  have  observed  in  the  children  of  this 
country.  They  were  returning  home  for  the  holidays 
in  high  glee,  and  promising  themselves  a  world  of  enjoy- 
ment. It  was  delightful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of 
pleasure  of  the  little  rogues,  and  the  impracticable  feats 
they  were  to  perform  during  their  six  weeks'  emancipation 
from  the  abhorred  thraldom  of  book,  birch,  and  pedagogue. 
They  were  full  of  anticipations  of  the  meeting  with  the 
family  and  household,  down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog; 
and  of  the  joy  they  were  to  give  their  little  sisters  by  the 
presents  with  which  their  pockets  were  crammed;  but  the 
meeting  to  which  they  seemed  to  look  forward  with  the 
greatest  impatience  was  with  Bantam,  which  I  found  to 
be  a  pony,  and,  according  to  their  talk,  possessed  of  more 
14 


Signs  of  the  Season 

virtues  than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Bucephalus.  How 
he  could  trot!  how  he  could  run!  and  then  such  leaps  as 
he  would  take  —  there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  country 
that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the 
coachman,  to  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented, 
they  addressed  a  host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him 
one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  whole  world.  Indeed,  I 
could  not  but  notice  the  more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle 
and  importance  of  the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  had  a  large  bunch  of  Christmas 
greens  stuck  in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat.  He  is  always 
a  personage  full  of  mighty  care  and  business,  and  he  is 
particularly  so  during  this  season,  having  so  many  com- 
missions to  execute  in  consequence  of  the  great  interchange 
of  presents. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have  given  a  more 
than  usual  animation  to  the  country,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  everybody  was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game, 
poultry,  and  other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  cir- 
culation in  the  villages;  the  grocers',  butchers',  and  fruit- 
erers' shops  were  thronged  with  customers.  The  house- 
wives were  stirring  briskly  about,  putting  their  dwellings 
in  order;  and  the  glossy  branches  of  holly,  with  their  bright 
red  berries,  began  to  appear  at  the  windows.  The  scene 
brought  to  mind  an  old  writer's  account  of  Christmas  prep- 
arations: —  "Now  capons  and  hens,  besides  turkeys,  geese, 
and  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton  —  must  all  die ;  for  in 
twelve  days  a  multitude  of  people  will  not  be  fed  with  a 
little.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar  and  honey,  square  it 
among  pies  and  broth.     Now  or  never  must  music  be  in 

15 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

tune,  for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a 
heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the  fire.  The  country  maid 
leaves  half  her  market,  and  must  be  sent  again,  if  she  for- 
gets a  pack  of  cards  on  Christmas  eve.  Great  is  the  con- 
tention of  Holly  and  Ivy,  whether  master  or  dame  wears 
the  breeches.  Dice  and  cards  benefit  the  butler;  and  if 
the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will  sweetly  Uck  his  fingers." 

Washington  Irving 

Christmas  Invitation     ^^      ^^      ^^^      ^:>      ^^ 

/'^OME  down  to  marra  night,  an'  mind 
^^    Don't  leave  thy  fiddle-bag  behind. 
We'll  shiake  a  lag  an'  drink  a  cup 
O'  yal  to  kip  wold  Chris'mas  up. 

An'  let  thy  sister  tiake  thy  yarm, 
The  wa'k  woont  do  'er  any  harm : 
Ther's  noo  dirt  now  to  spwile  her  frock 
Var  'tis  a-vroze  so  hard's  a  rock. 

Ther  bent  noo  stranngers  that  'ull  come, 
But  only  a  vew  naighbours:  zome 
Vrom  Stowe,  an'  Combe,  an'  two  ar  dree 
Vrom  uncles  up  at  Rookery. 

An'  thee  woot  vine  a  ruozy  fiace, 
An'  pair  ov  eyes  so  black  as  sloos, 
The  pirtiest  oones  in  al  the  pHace. 
I'm  sure  I  needen  tell  thee  whose. 

We  got  a  back  bran',  dree  girt  logs 
So  much  as  dree  ov  us  can  car: 
We'll  put  'em  up  athirt  the  dogs, 
An'  miake  a  vier  to  the  bar, 
i6 


THE  HOLY   NIGHT.    C.  MuUer. 


Signs  of  the  Season 

An'  ev'ry  oone  wull  tell  his  tiale, 
An'  ev'ry  oone  wull  zing  his  zong, 
An'  ev'ry  oone  wull  drink  his  yal, 
To  love  an'  frien'ship  al  night  long. 

We'll  snap  the  tongs,  we'll  have  a  bal, 
We'll  shiake  the  house,  we'll  rise  the  ruf, 
We'll  romp  an'  miake  the  maidens  squal, 
A  catchen  o'm  at  bline-man's  buff. 

Zoo  come  to  marra  night,  an'  mind 
Don't  leave  thy  fiddle-bag  behind. 
We'll  shiake  a  lag,  an'  drink  a  cup 
O'  yal  to  kip  wold  Chris' mas  up. 

William  Barnes 

A  Christmas  Market     -'Oy     ^^     ^^     ^>     ^^ 

OUT  of  doors  the  various  market-places  are  covered  with 
little  stalls  selling  cheap  clothing,  cheap  toys,  jewel- 
lery, sweets,  and  gingerbread;  all  the  heterogeneous  rub- 
bish you  have  seen  a  thousand  times  at  German  fairs,  and 
never  tire  of  seeing  if  a  fair  delights  you. 

But  better  than  the  Leipziger  Messe,  better  even  than 
a  summer  market  at  Freiburg  or  at  Heidelberg,  is  a  Christ- 
mas market  in  any  one  of  the  old  German  cities  in  the  hill 
country,  when  the  streets  and  the  open  places  are  covered 
with  crisp  clean  snow,  and  the  mountains  are  white  with 
it,  and  the  moon  shines  on  the  ancient  houses,  and  the  tinkle 
of  sledge  bells  reaches  you  when  you  escape  from  the  din 
of  the  market,  and  look  down  at  the  bustle  of  it  from  some 
silent  place,  a  high  window,  perhaps,  or  the  high  empty 
steps  leading  into  the  cathedral.  The  air  is  cold  and  still, 
c  17 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

and  heavy  with  the  scent  of  the  Christmas  trees  brought 
from  the  forest  for  the  pleasure  of  the  children.  Day  by 
day  you  see  the  rows  of  them  growing  thinner,  and  if  you 
go  to  the  market  on  Christmas  Eve  itself  you  will  find  only 
a  few  trees  left  out  in  the  cold.  The  market  is  empty, 
the  peasants  are  harnessing  their  horses  or  their  oxen, 
the  women  are  packing  up  their  unsold  goods.  In  every 
home  in  the  city  one  of  the  trees  that  scented  the  open  air 
a  week  ago  is  shining  now  with  lights  and  little  gilded  nuts 
and  apples,  and  is  helping  to  make  that  Christmas  smell, 
all  compact  of  the  pine  forest,  wax  candles,  cakes,  and 
painted  toys,  you  must  associate  so  long  as  you  live  with 
Christmas  in  Germany. 

Mrs.  Alfred  Sidgwick  in  Home  Life  in  Germany 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  as  Seen  in  Holland      -^^ 

'  I  ^HE  Star  of  Bethlehem,  as  seen  in  Holland,  is  a  pretty 
^  but  a  cheap  sight,  for  it  costs  nothing.  'Tis  the 
Harbinger  of  Christmas  —  a  huge  illuminated  star  which 
is  carried  through  the  silent,  dark,  Dutch  streets,  shining 
upon  the  crowding  people,  and  typical  of  the  star  which 
once  guided  the  wise  men  of  the  East. 

The  young  men  of  a  Dutch  town  who  go  to  the  expense 
of  this  star,  which,  carried  through  the  streets,  is  the  signal 
that  Christmas  has  come  once  again,  are  swayed  by  the 
full  intention  of  turning  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  to  account. 

They  gather  money  for  the  poor  from  the  crowds  who 
come  out  to  welcome  the  symbol  of  peace,  and  having  done 
this  for  the  good  of  those  whom  fortune  has  not  befriended, 
they  betake  them  to  the  head  burgomaster  of  the  town, 
who  is  bound  to  set  down  the  youths  who  form  the  Star 
i8 


Signs  of  the  Season 

company  to  a  very  comfortable  meal.  'Tis  a  great  insti- 
tution, the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  in  many  Dutch  towns  and 
cities;  and  may  it  never  die  out,  for  it  does  harm  to  no 
man,  and  good  to  many. 

Bow-Bells  Annual 


The  Pickwick  Club  goes  down  to  keep  Christmas 
at  Dingley  Dell      ^==^     ^^^^     ^^^      ''^^^      ^^ 

A  S  brisk  as  bees,  if  not  altogether  as  light  as  fairies, 
-^^  did  the  four  Pickwickians  assemble  on  the  morning 
of  the  twenty-second  day  of  December,  in  the  year  of  grace 
in  which  these,  their  faithfully-recorded  adventures,  were 
undertaken  and  accomplished.  Christmas  was  close  at 
hand,  in  all  his  bluff  and  hearty  honesty ;  it  was  the  season 
of  hospitality,  merriment,  and  open-heartedness;  the  old 
year  was  preparing,  like  an  ancient  philosopher,  to  call  his 
friends  around  him,  and  amidst  the  sound  of  feasting  and 
revelry  to  pass  gently  and  calmly  away.  Gay  and  merry 
was  the  time ;  and  right  gay  and  merry  were  at  least  four 
of  the  numerous  hearts  that  were  gladdened  by  its  coming. 

The  portmanteaus  and  carpet-bags  have  been  stowed  away, 
and  Mr.  Waller  and  the  guard  are  endeavouring  to  insin- 
uate into  the  fore-boot  a  huge  cod-fish  several  sizes  too 
large  for  it,  which  is  snugly  packed  up,  in  a  long  brown 
basket,  with  a  layer  of  straw  over  the  top,  and  which  has 
been  left  to  the  last,  in  order  that  he  may  repose  in  safety 
on  the  half-dozen  barrels  of  real  native  oysters,  all  the 
property  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  which  have  been  arranged  in 
regular  order,  at  the  bottom  of  the  receptacle.  The 
19 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

interest  displayed  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  countenance  is  most 
intense,  as  Mr.  Weller  and  the  guard  try  to  squeeze  the 
cod-fish  into  the  boot,  first  head  first,  and  then  tail  first, 
and  then  top  upwards,  and  then  bottom  upwards,  and  then 
side-ways,  and  then  long-ways,  all  of  which  artifices  the 
implacable  cod-fish  sturdily  resists,  until  the  guard  acci- 
dentally hits  him  in  the  very  middle  of  the  basket,  where- 
upon he  suddenly  disappears  into  the  boot,  and  with  him, 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  guard  himself,  who,  not  cal- 
culating upon  so  sudden  a  cessation  of  the  passive  resistance 
of  the  cod-fish,  experiences  a  very  unexpected  shock,  to 
the  unsmotherable  delight  of  all  the  porters  and  by-standers. 
Upon  this,  Mr.  Pickwick  smiles  with  great  good  humour, 
and  drawing  a  shilling  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  begs  the 
guard,  as  he  picks  himself  out  of  the  boot,  to  drink  his 
health  in  a  glass  of  hot  brandy  and  water,  at  which  the 
guard  smiles  too,  and  Messrs.  Snodgrass,  Winkle,  and 
Tupman,  all  smile  in  company.  The  guard  and  Mr. 
Weller  disappear  for  five  minutes,  most  probably  to  get 
the  hot  brandy  and  water,  for  they  smell  very  strongly  of 
it,  when  they  return;  the  coachman  mounts  to  the  box, 
Mr.  Weller  jumps  up  behind,  the  Pickwickians  pull  their 
coats  round  their  legs,  and  their  shawls  over  their  noses; 
the  helpers  pull  the  horse-cloths  off,  the  coachman  shouts 
out  a  cheery  "All  right,"  and  away  they  go. 

They  have  rumbled  through  the  streets,  and  jolted  over 
the  stones,  and  at  length  reach  the  wide  and  open  country. 
The  wheels  skim  over  the  hard  and  frosty  ground ;  and  the 
horses,  bursting  into  a  canter  at  a  smart  crack  of  the  whip, 
step  along  the  road  as  if  the  load  behind  them,  coach, 
passengers,  cod-fish,  oyster  barrels,  and  all,  were  but  a 
feather  at  their  heels.     They  have  descended  a  gentle 


Signs  of  the  Season 

slope,  and  enter  upon  a  level,  as  compact  and  dry  as  a  solid 
block  of  marble,  two  miles  long.  Another  crack  of  the 
whip,  and  on  they  speed,  at  a  smart  gallop,  the  horses 
tossing  their  heads  and  rattling  the  harness  as  if  in  exhila- 
ration at  the  rapidity  of  the  motion,  while  the  coachman 
holding  whip  and  reins  in  one  hand,  takes  off  his  hat  with 
the  other,  and  resting  it  on  his  knees,  pulls  out  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  wipes  his  forehead  partly  because  he  has  a 
habit  of  doing  it,  and  partly  because  it's  as  well  to  show 
the  passengers  how  cool  he  is,  and  what  an  easy  thing 
it  is  to  drive  four-in-hand,  when  you  have  had  as  much 
practice  as  he  has.  Having  done  this  very  leisurely  (other- 
wise the  effect  would  be  materially  impaired),  he  replaces 
his  handkerchief,  pulls  on  his  hat,  adjusts  his  gloves,  squares 
his  elbows,  cracks  the  whip  again,  and  on  they  speed, 
more  merrily  than  before. 

A  few  small  houses  scattered  on  either  side  of  the  road, 
betoken  the  entrance  to  some  town  or  village.  The  lively 
notes  of  the  guard's  key-bugle  vibrate  in  the  clear  cold  air, 
and  wake  up  the  old  gentleman  inside,  who  carefully 
letting  down  the  window-sash  half  way,  and  standing  sentry 
over  the  air,  takes  a  short  peep  out,  and  then  carefully 
pulling  it  up  again,  informs  the  other  inside  that  they're 
going  to  change  directly;  on  which  the  other  inside  wakes 
himself  up,  and  determines  to  postpone  his  next  nap  until 
after  the  stoppage.  Again  the  bugle  sounds  lustily  forth, 
and  rouses  the  cottager's  wife  and  children,  who  peep  out 
at  the  house-door,  and  watch  the  coach  till  it  turns  the 
corner,  when  they  once  more  crouch  round  the  blazing 
fire,  and  throw  on  another  log  of  wood  against  father  comes 
home,  while  father  himself,  a  full  mile  off,  has  just  ex- 
changed a  friendly  nod  with  the  coachman,  and  turned 

21 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

round,  to  take  a  good  long  stare  at  the  vehicle  as  it  whirls 
away. 

And  now  the  bugle  plays  a  lively  air  as  the  coach  rattles 
through  the  ill-paved  streets  of  a  country  town;  and  the 
coachman,  undoing  the  buckle  which  keeps  his  ribands 
together,  prepares  to  throw  them  off  the  moment  he  stops. 
Mr.  Pickwick  emerges  from  his  coat  collar,  and  looks  about 
him  with  great  curiosity:  perceiving  which,  the  coachman 
informs  Mr.  Pickwick  of  the  name  of  the  town,  and  tells 
him  it  was  market-day  yesterday,  both  which  pieces  of  in- 
formation Mr.  Pickwick  retails  to  his  fellow-passengers, 
whereupon  they  emerge  from  their  coat  collars  too,  and 
look  about  them  also.  Mr.  Winkle,  who  sits  at  the  ex- 
treme edge,  with  one  leg  dangling  in  the  air,  is  nearly  pre- 
cipitated into  the  street,  as  the  coach  twists  round  the  sharp 
corner  by  the  cheesemonger's  shop,  and  turns  into  the 
market-place;  and  before  Mr.  Snodgrass,  who  sits  next 
to  him,  has  recovered  from  his  alarm,  they  pull  up  at  the 
inn  yard,  where  the  fresh  horses,  with  cloths  on,  are  al- 
ready waiting.  The  coachman  throws  down  the  reins 
and  gets  down  himself,  and  the  other  outside  passengers 
drop  down  also,  except  those  who  have  no  great  confi- 
dence in  their  ability  to  get  up  again,  and  they  remain 
where  they  are,  and  stamp  their  feet  against  the  coach  to 
warm  them;  looking  with  longing  eyes  and  red  noses  at 
the  bright  fire  in  the  inn  bar,  and  the  sprigs  of  holly  with 
red  berries  which  ornament  the  window. 

But  the  guard  has  delivered  at  the  corn-dealer's  shop, 
the  brown  paper  packet  he  took  out  of  the  little  pouch 
which  hangs  over  his  shoulder  by  a  leathern  strap,  and  has 
seen  the  horses  carefully  put  to,  and  has  thrown  on  the  pave- 
ment the  saddle  which, was  brought  from  London  on  the 

22 


Signs  of  the  Season 

coach-roof,  and  has  assisted  in  the  conference  between  the 
coachman  and  the  hostler  about  the  grey  mare  that  hurt 
her  off -fore-leg  last  Tuesday,  and  he  and  Mr.  Weller  are 
all  right  behind,  and  the  coachman  is  all  right  in  front,  and 
the  old  gentleman  inside,  who  has  kept  the  window  down 
full  two  inches  all  this  time,  has  pulled  it  up  again,  and  the 
cloths  are  off,  and  they  are  all  ready  for  starting,  except  the 
''two  stout  gentlemen,"  whom  the  coachman  enquires 
after  with  some  impatience.  Hereupon  the  coachman  and 
the  guard,  and  Sam  Weller,  and  Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr. 
Snodgrass,  and  all  the  hostlers,  and  every  one  of  the  idlers, 
who  are  more  in  number  than  all  the  others  put  together, 
shout  for  the  missing  gentlemen  as  loud  as  they  can  bawl. 
A  distant  response  is  heard  from  the  yard,  and  Mr.  Pick- 
wick and  Mr.  Tupman  come  running  down  it,  quite  out 
of  breath,  for  they  have  been  having  a  glass  of  ale  a-piece, 
and  Mr.  Pickwick's  fingers  are  so  cold  that  he  has  been  full 
five  minutes  before  he  could  find  the  sixpence  to  pay  for  it. 
The  coachman  shouts  an  admonitory  ''Now,  then,  gen'l- 
m'n,"  the  guard  re-echoes  it  —  the  old  gentleman  inside, 
thinks  it  a  very  extraordinary  thing  that  people  will  get 
down  when  they  know  there  isn't  time  for  it  —  Mr.  Pick- 
wick struggles  up  on  one  side,  Mr.  Tupman  on  the  other, 
Mr.  Winkle  cries  "All  right,"  and  off  they  start.  Shawls 
are  pulled  up,  coat  collars  are  re-adjusted,  the  pavement 
ceases,  the  houses  disappear;  and  they  are  once  again 
dashing  along  the  open  road,  with  the  fresh  clear  air  blow- 
ing in  their  faces,  and  gladdening  their  very  hearts  within 
them. 

Such  was  the  progress  of  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  friends 
by  the  Muggleton  Telegraph,  on  their  way  to  Dingley 
Dell;   and  at  three  o'clock  that  afternoon,  they  all  stood 
23 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

high  and  dry,  safe  and  sound,  hale  and  hearty,  upon  the 
steps  of  the  Blue  Lion,  having  taken  on  the  road  enough 
of  ale  and  brandy,  to  enable  them  to  bid  defiance  to  the 
frost  that  was  binding  up  the  earth  in  its  iron  fetters,  and 
weaving  its  beautiful  network  upon  the  trees  and  hedges. 

Charles  Dickens 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas      ^:>     ^:::y     ^:::i>'     ^^^ 

"nrWAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through 

-*■  the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there; 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads; 
And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap. 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap  — 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow 
Gave  a  lustre  of  midday  to  objects  below; 
When  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 
But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick ! 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came. 
And  he  whistled  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name: 
"  Now,  Dasher!   now,  Dancer!   now,  Prancer  and  Vixen! 
On,  Comet !  on,  Cupid !  on,  Donder  and  Blitzen ! 
24 


Signs  of  the  Season 

To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !  " 
As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 
So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys  —  and  St.  Nicholas,  too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 
As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes,  how  they  twinkled !   his  dimples,  how  merry ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry; 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow. 
And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow. 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth. 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump  —  a  right  jolly  old  elf; 
And  I  laughed,  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 
A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings;   then  turned  with  a  jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  in  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle. 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle; 
25 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight: 
"Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night  1" 

Clement  C.  Moore 


Crowded  Out        ^^     ^^^     ^^:>     ^^     ''^^     ^'^ 

IVrOBODY  ain't  Christmas  shoppin' 
■^  ^     Fur  his  stockin', 
Nobody  ain't  cotch  no  turkkey, 
Nobody  ain't  bake  no  pie. 
Nobody's  laid  nuthin'  by; 
Santa  Claus  don't  cut  no  figger 
Fur  his  mammy's  little  nigger. 

Seems  lak  everybody's  rushin* 
An'  er  crushin'; 

Crowdin'  shops  an'  jaminiii'  trolleys, 
Buyin'  shoes  an'  shirts  an'  toys 
Fur  de  white  folks'  girls  an'  boys; 
But  no  hobby-horse  ain't  rockin' 
Fur  his  little  wore-out  stockin'. 

He  ain't  quar'lin,  recollec', 

He  don't  'spec' 

Nuthin'  —  it's  his  not  expectin' 

Makes  his  mammy  wish  —  O  Laws  I  — 

Fur  er  nigger  Santy  Claus, 

Totin'  jus'  er  toy  balloon 

Fur  his  mammy's  little  coon. 

Rosalie  M.  Jonas 


26 


II 

HOLIDAY   SAINTS   AND    LORDS 


TTERE  comes  old  Father  Christmas, 
-■■  -*■     With  sound  of  fife  and  drums; 
With  mistletoe  about  his  brows, 
So  merrily  he  comes ! " 

Rose  Terry  Cooke 


30 


My  Lord  of  Misrule      ^:iy     -^^y     ^^     ^;^     ^:y 

"T7IRSTE,"  says  Master  Stubs,  "all  the  wilde  heades 
-*■  of  the  parishe  conventynge  together,  chuse  them  a 
grand  Capitaine  (of  mischeef)  whom  they  innoble  with  the 
title  of  my  Lorde  of  Misserule,  and  hym  they  crown  with 
great  solemnitie,  and  adopt  for  their  kyng.  This  kyng 
anoynted,  chuseth  for  the  twentie,  fourtie,  threescore,  or 
a  hundred  lustie  guttes  like  hymself,  to  waite  uppon  his 
lordely  majestic,  and  to  guarde  his  noble  persone.  Then 
every  one  of  these  his  menne  he  investeth  with  his  liveries 
of  greene,  yellowe  or  some  other  light  wanton  colour.  And 
as  though  that  were  not  (baudie)  gaudy  enough  I  should 
saie,  they  bedecke  themselves  with  scarfifes,  ribons  and 
laces,  hanged  all  over  with  golde  rynges,  precious  stones 
and  other  jewelles :  this  doen,  they  tye  about  either  legge 
twentie  or  fourtie  belles  with  rich  hankercheefes  in  their 
handes,  and  sometymes  laied  acrosse  over  their  shoulders 
and  neckes,  borrowed  for  the  moste  parte  of  their  pretie 
Mopsies  and  loovyng  Bessies,  for  bussyng  them  in  the 
darcke.  Thus  thinges  sette  in  order,  they  have  their 
hobbie  horses,  dragons,  and  other  antiques,  together  with 
their  baudie  pipers,  and  thunderyng  drommers,  to  strike 
up  the  Deville's  Daunce  withall"  (meaning  the  Morris 
Dance),  "then  marche  these  heathen  companie  towardes 
the  church  and  churche  yarde,  their  pipers  pipyng,  drom- 
mers thonderyng,  their  stumppes  dauncyng,  their  belles 
iynglyng,  their  handkerchefes  swyngyng  about  their  heades 
like  madmen,  their  hobbie  horses  and  other  monsters 
31 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

skyrmishyng  amongst  the  throng:  and  in  this  sorte  they 
goe  to  the  churche  (though  the  minister  bee  at  praier  or 
preachyng)  dauncyng  and  swingyng  their  handkercheefes 
over  their  heades,  in  the  churche,  Hke  devilles  incarnate, 
with  suche  a  confused  noise  that  no  man  can  heare  his 
owne  voice.  Then  the  foohshe  people,  they  looke,  they 
stare,  they  laugh,  they  fleere,  and  mount  upon  formes 
and  pewes,  to  see  these  goodly  pageauntes,  solemnized  in 

this  sort." 

Quoted  by  T.  K.  Hervey 

St.  Nicholas     ^^^r^*'     ^=^     -^^^     ^^^    -^^^     "^^     "^^^ 

A  CCORDING  to  Hone's  "Ancient  Mysteries"  Saint 
-^^  Nicholas,  Bishop  of  Myra,  was  a  saint  of  great  virtue 
and  piety.  .  .  .  The  old  legend  is  that  the  sons  of  a  rich 
Asiatic,  on  their  way  to  Athens  for  education,  were  slain 
by  a  robber  innkeeper,  dismembered,  and  their  parts  hid- 
den in  a  brine  tub.  In  the  morning  came  the  Saint,  whose 
visions  had  warned  him  of  the  crime,  whose  authority 
forced  confession,  and  whose  prayers  restored  the  boys 
to  life.  The  Salisbury  Missal  of  1534  contains  a  curious 
engraving  of  the  scene,  in  which  the  bodies  of  the  children 
are  leaping  from  the  brine  tub  at  the  Bishop's  call  even 
while  the  innkeeper  at  the  table  above  their  heads  is  busily 
cutting  a  leg  and  foot  into  pieces  small  enough  for  his 
purposes. 

Ever  since,  St.  Nicholas  has  been  the  special  saint  of  the 
school-boy,  and  certain  of  the  customs  of  montem  day  at 
Eton  College  are  said  to  have  originated  in  old  festivals 
in  his  honor. 

St.  Nicholas  is  the  grand  patron  of  the  children  of  France, 
32 


Holiday  Saints  and  Lords 

to  whom  he  brings  bonbons  for  the  good,  but  a  cane  for 
the  naughty  child.  In  Germany  he  acts  as  an  advance 
courier  examining  into  the  conduct  of  the  children,  dis- 
tributes goodies  and  promises  to  those  with  good  records 
a  further  reward  which  the  Christ  Child  brings  at  Christ- 
mas time.  But  his  own  peculiar  celebration  takes  place 
in  a  tiny  seaport  of  southern  Italy  where  it  is  curiously 
interwoven  with  ancient  usages  possibly  remaining  from 
some  worship  of  Neptune. 

On  St.  Nicholas's  Day,  the  6th  of  December,  the  sailors 
of  the  port  take  the  saint's  image  from  the  beautiful  church 
of  St.  Nicholas  and  with  a  long  procession  of  boats  carry 
it  far  out  to  sea.  Returning  with  it  at  nightfall  they  are 
met  by  bonfires,  torches,  all  the  townspeople,  and  hundreds 
of  quaintly  dressed  pilgrims,  who  welcome  the  returning 
saint  with  songs  and  carry  him  to  visit  one  shrine  after 
another,  before  returning  him  to  the  custody  of  the  canons. 

W.  S.  Walsh  quotes  a  writer  in  Chambers'  "Book  of 
Days"  as  saying:  "Through  the  native  rock  which  formes 
the  tomb  of  the  saint,  water  constantly  exudes,  which  is 
collected  by  the  canons  on  a  sponge  attached  to  a  reed, 
squeezed  into  bottles  and  sold  to  pilgrims  as  a  miraculous 
specific  under  the  name  of  the  "manna  of  St.  Nicholas." 

An  Old  Saint  in  a  New  World   ^^    ^^    ^^^    ^:^ 

T 1  fHILE  Catholicism  prevailed,  St.  Nicholas  was  every- 
^  *  where  the  children's  saint.  In  Holland,  where  his 
personality  was  modified  by  memories  of  Woden,  god  of 
the  elements  and  the  harvest,  he  had  a  peculiar  hold  on 
popular  affection  which  persisted  into  Protestant  times. 
The  children  of  the  Dutch  still  believe  that  St.  Nicholas 
D  c         33 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

brings  the  gifts  that  they  always  get  on  the  eve  of  his  titular 
day,  December  6.  In  New  Amsterdam  this  day  was  one 
of  the  five  chief  feastdays  of  the  year.  After  New  Orange 
became  New  York  the  characteristic  traits  of  the  Dutch 
children's  festival  were  transferred  to  the  near-by  Christ- 
mas festival  which  was  English  as  well  as  Dutch.  It  can- 
not now  be  said  when  the  change  began  or  when  it  was 
firmly  established.  It  is  known,  indeed,  that  by  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  century  St.  Nicholas  Day  had  been 
dropped  from  the  list  of  official  holidays  which,  religious 
and  patriotic  together,  then  numbered  twenty-seven.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  more  than  one  memoir  and  book  of 
reminiscences  says  that  as  late  as  the  middle  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  some  conservative  old  Dutch  families  still 
celebrated  the  true  St.  Nicholas  Day  in  their  homes  in 
the  true  old  fashion,  then  bestowing  the  children's  annual 
meed  of  gifts.  Nor  is  any  light  thrown  on  the  question  by 
certain  entries  in  a  local  newspaper,  Rivington's  Gazetteer, 
dated  in  December,  1773  and  1774,  and  referring  to  cele- 
brations of  ''the  anniversary  of  St.  Nicholas,  otherwise 
called  Santa  Claus,"  for  they  speak  of  social  meetings 
of  the  ''sons  of  that  ancient  saint"  in  which  children  can 
hardly  have  participated,  and  they  indicate  days  which 
were  neither  Christmas  Day  nor  the  true  St.  Nicholas  Day. 
It  is  clear,  however,  that  on  Manhattan  by  a  gradual 
consolidation  of  the  two  old  festivals  Christmas  became 
pre-eminently  a  children's  festival  presided  over  by  the 
children's  saint  whose  modern  name,  Santa  Claus,  is  a 
variant  of  the  Dutch  St.  Niclaes  or  San  Claas.  In  all 
European  countries  Christmas  still  means  simply  the  day 
of  Christ's  nativity;  for  the  "Old  Christmas"  whom  we 
meet  in  English  ballads  of  earlier  times,  the  "Father  Christ- 
34 


Holiday  Saints  and  Lords 

mas"  of  Charles  Dickens,  and  the  ''Pere  Noel"  of  the 
French  are  abstractly  mythical  figures  in  no  way  related  to 
St.  Nicholas.  But  anywhere  in  our  America  the  domestic 
observance  of  Christmas  centres  around  Santa  Claus  with 
his  burden  of  gifts.  The  stockings  that  our  children  hang 
on  Christmas  Eve  were  once  the  shoes  that  the  children 
of  Amsterdam  and  New  Amsterdam  set  in  the  chimney 
corners  on  the  eve  of  December  6;  and  the  reindeer  whose 
hoofs  our  children  hear  represent  the  horse,  descended 
from  Woden's  horse  Sleipner,  upon  whose  back  St.  Nicholas 
still  makes  his  rounds  in  Holland.  The  Christmas-tree 
is  not  Dutch  but  German;  about  the  middle  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  we  acquired  it  from  our  German  immigrants. 
But  even  this  the  American  child  accepts  at  the  hands  of 
Santa  Claus,  not  of  the  Christ  Child  as  does  the  little 
German.  "Kriss  Kringle,"  it  may  be  added,  a  name  now 
often  mistakenly  used  as  though  it  were  a  synonym  of 
Santa  Claus,  is  a  corruption  of  the  German  Christkindlein 
(Christ  Child). 

Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer 
From  the  History  of  the  City  of  New  York 

St.  Thomas     <:^     ^^     <^     ^:^     ^;::y     ^:y     ^::y 

A  NOTHER  of  the  Saints  of  the  hoHday  season  is  doubt- 
^  ing  Thomas,  whose  festival  appropriately  comes  on 
Dec.  21,  just  when  the  child  mind  is  almost  ready 
to  doubt  the  efficacy  of  all  those  letters  to  Santa  Claus, 
and  has  more  than  doubts  whether  conduct  has  been  so 
perfect  as  to  warrant  hope  for  the  Christmas  stocking. 

St.  Thomas  seems  to  have  remained  a  doubter  to  the 
end,  for  in  the  cathedral  of  Pi  ato  is  shown  the  girdle  of 
35 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

the  "  Madonnadella  Cintola";  her  ascension  into  heaven 
took  place  when  Thomas  was  not  with  his  brother  apostles, 
whose  account  of  the  miracle  he  refused  to  believe ;  whereon 
the  indignant  Madonna  threw  her  girdle  back  to  him  from 
heaven  as  evidence,  —  or  so  the  legend  reads,  —  with  the 
girdle  to  prove  it. 

His  emblem  as  an  apostle  is  a  builder's  rule  or  square; 
possibly  associated  with  that  other  legend  of  the  king  of  the 
Indies  who  ordered  the  saint  to  build  him  a  magnificent 
palace.  On  the  return  of  the  king  and  his  discovery  that  the 
money  for  this  building  had  all  been  given  to  the  poor, 
the  saint  was  thrown  into  a  dungeon.  Before  worse  befel, 
the  king  died  and  four  days  later  appeared  to  his  heir  with 
an  account  of  the  splendid  palace  of  gold  and  precious 
stones  built  for  him  in  heaven  by  the  charities  of  the  saint 
on  earth. 

W.  P.  R. 


Kriss  Kringle     -^^     ^^^i*-     ^v>     ^;^    ^Ci*-     ^:^    ^o 

JUST  as  the  moon  was  fading 
Amid  her  misty  rings. 
And  every  stocking  was  stuffed 
With  childhood's  precious  things, 

Old  Kriss  Kringle  looked  round, 
And  saw  on  the  elm -tree  bough, 

High-hung,  an  oriole's  nest, 
Silent  and  empty  now. 

**  Quite  like  a  stocking,"  he  laughed, 
"  Pinned  up  there  on  the  tree ! 

36 


Holiday   Saints  and  Lords 

Little  I  thought  the  birds 
Expected  a  present  from  me!" 

Then  old  Kriss  Kringle,  who  loves 

A  joke  as  well  as  the  best, 
Dropped  a  handful  of  flakes 

In  the  oriole's  empty  nest. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

By  permission  of  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

II  Santissimo  Bambino     ^:>     ^::y     -<;:>     ^^     <^ 

''  TL  SANTISSIMO  BAMBINO,"  of  the  Ara  Cceli  in 
-*-  Rome,  smiles  placidly  with  the  gravity  of  a  sphinx  on 
all  alike.  Wee  little  folk  before  it  clasp  dimpled  hands  and 
lispingly  recite  their  speeches  of  praise.  Older  folk  lift 
up  a  prayer  for  the  safe  return  of  friends  afar;  sometimes, 
as  a  concession  to  the  faithful  —  at  a  price  —  it  is  driven 
out  in  a  bannered  coach  to  bless  the  sick.  If  the  patient 
is  to  live,  the  image  will  turn  red ;  if  he  is  to  die,  it  will  turn 
pale.  Should  its  attendant  monks  by  chance  forget  to 
return  it  to  the  gorgeous  manger  of  the  Franciscan  church 
to  which  it  belongs,  perchance  it  will  return  of  its  own  will, 
borne  by  no  human  hands,  while  all  the  bells  of  churches 
and  convents  are  set  a-swaying  by  the  touch  of  angel 
hosts  —  or  so  the  Roman  peasants  say. 

In  England  similar  images  have  been  used  in  the  service 
which  follows  the  midnight  mass  of  Christmas  Eve;  so 
soon  as  the  Host  is  safely  returned  to  its  receptacle  there 
is  disclosed  to  the  view  of  the  reverently  adoring  monks 
the  tiny  waxen  doll,  elaborately  swathed  yet  so  as  to  leave 
visible  the  pink,  expressionless  face,  and  half  hidden  hands 
37 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

and  feet.  The  officiating  priest  lifts  the  image  and  facing 
the  waiting  monks  holds  it  reverently  while  in  circling  pro- 
cession, one  after  another,  each  bends  for  a  moment  to  kiss 
the  tiny  figure  on  face  or  hands,  crosses  himself  and  passes 
on.  The  ceremony  is  one  to  be  seen  only  among  the  Trap- 
pist  monks  and  only  at  this  one  service  of  the  Christmas 
season. 

W.  P.  R. 


The  Christ  Child     <>y     <:^     -<;^     -^^     ^:>     -^y 

T^LISE  Traut  relates  the  legend  that  on  every  Christmas 
■*— '  eve  the  Httle  Christ-child  wanders  all  over  the  world 
bearing  on  its  shoulders  a  bundle  of  evergreens.  Through 
city  streets  and  country  lanes,  up  and  down  hill,  to  proudest 
castle  and  lowliest  hovel,  through  cold  and  storm  and  sleet 
and  ice,  this  holy  child  travels,  to  be  welcomed  or  rejected 
at  the  doors  at  which  he  pleads  for  succor.  Those  who 
would  invite  him  and  long  for  his  coming  set  a  lighted  candle 
in  the  window  to  guide  him  on  his  way  hither.  They  also 
believe  that  he  comes  to  them  in  the  guise  of  any  alms- 
craving,  wandering  person  who  knocks  humbly  at  their 
doors  for  sustenance,  thus  testing  their  benevolence.  In 
many  places  the  aid  rendered  the  beggar  is  looked  upon  as 
hospitality  shown  to  Christ. 


The  April  Baby  is  Thankful     ^;:>     -^     ^i^*'    ^^ 

T^ECEMBER  2  7th.  —  It  is  the  fashion,  I  believe,  to  regard 
-"-^  Christmas  as  a  bore  of  rather  a  gross  description,  and 
as  a  time  when  you  are  invited   to  overeat  yourself,  and 

38 


Holiday  Saints  and   Lords 

pretend  to  be  merry  without  just  cause.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  is  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most  poetic  institutions 
possible,  if  observed  in  the  proper  manner,  and  after  hav- 
ing been  more  or  less  unpleasant  to  everybody  for  a  whole 
year,  it  is  a  blessing  to  be  forced  on  that  one  day  to  be 
amiable,  and  it  is  certainly  delightful  to  be  able  to  give 
presents  without  being  haunted  by  the  conviction  that  you 
are  spoiling  the  recipient,  and  will  suffer  for  it  afterward. 
Servants  are  only  big  children,  and  are  made  just  as  happy 
as  children  by  little  presents  and  nice  things  to  eat,  and, 
for  days  beforehand,  every  time  the  three  babies  go  into 
the  garden  they  expect  to  meet  the  Christ  Child  with  His 
arms  full  of  gifts.  They  firmly  believe  that  it  is  thus  their 
presents  are  brought,  and  it  is  such  a  charming  idea  that 
Christmas  would  be  worth  celebrating  for  its  sake  alone. 

As  great  secrecy  is  observed,  the  preparations  devolve 
entirely  on  me,  and  it  is  not  very  easy  work,  with  so  many 
people  in  our  own  house  and  on  each  of  the  farms,  and  all 
the  children,  big  and  little,  expecting  their  share  of  happi- 
ness. The  library  is  uninhabitable  for  several  days  before 
and  after,  as  it  is  there  that  we  have  the  trees  and  presents. 
All  down  one  side  are  the  trees,  and  the  other  three  sides 
are  lined  with  tables,  a  separate  one  for  each  person  in 
the  house.  When  the  trees  are  lighted,  and  stand  in  their 
radiance  shining  down  on  the  happy  faces,  I  forget  all  the 
trouble  it  has  been,  and  the  number  of  times  I  have  had  to 
run  up  and  down  stairs,  and  the  various  aches  in  head  and 
feet,  and  enjoy  myself  as  much  as  anybody.  First  the 
June  baby  is  ushered  in,  then  the  others  and  ourselves 
according  to  age,  then  the  servants,  then  come  the  head  in- 
spector and  his  family,  and  other  inspectors  from  the  different 
farms,  the  mamsells,  the  bookkeepers  and  secretaries,  and 
39 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

then  all  the  children,  troops  and  troops  of  them  —  the  big 
ones  leading  the  little  ones  by  the  hand  and  carrying  the 
babies  in  their  arms,  and  the  mothers  peeping  round  the 
door.  As  many  as  can  get  in  stand  in  front  of  the  trees,  and 
sing  two  or  three  carols;  then  they  are  given  their  presents, 
and  go  off  triumphantly,  making  room  for  the  next  batch. 
My  three  babies  sang  lustily  too,  whether  they  happened 
to  know  what  was  being  sung  or  not.  They  had  on  white 
dresses  in  honour  of  the  occasion,  and  the  June  baby 
was  even  arrayed  in  a  low-necked  and  short-sleeved  gar- 
ment, after  the  manner  of  Teutonic  infants,  whatever  the 
state  of  the  thermometer.  Her  arms  are  like  miniature 
prize-fighter's  arms  —  I  never  saw  such  things;  they  are 
the  pride  and  joy  of  her  little  nurse,  who  had  tied  them 
up  with  blue  ribbons,  and  kept  on  kissing  them.  I  shall 
certainly  not  be  able  to  take  her  to  balls  when  she  grows 
up,  if  she  goes  on  having  arms  like  that. 

When  they  came  to  say  good-night,  they  were  all  very 
pale  and  subdued.  The  April  baby  had  an  exhausted- 
looking  Japanese  doll  with  her,  which  she  said  she  was 
taking  to  bed,  not  because  she  liked  him,  but  because 
she  was  so  sorry  for  him,  he  seemed  so  very  tired.  They 
kissed  me  absently,  and  went  away,  only  the  April  baby 
glancing  at  the  trees  as  she  passed  and  making  them  a 
curtesy. 

''Good-bye,  trees,"  I  heard  her  say;  and  then  she  made 
the  Japanese  doll  bow  to  them,  which  he  did,  in  a  very 
languid  and  blase  fashion.  "You'll  never  see  such  trees 
again,"  she  told  him,  giving  him  a  vindictive  shake,  "for 
you'll  be  brokened  long  before  next  time." 

She  went  out,  but  came  back  as  though  she  had  forgotten 
something. 

40 


Holiday   Saints  and   Lords 

"Thank  the  Christkind  so  much,  Mummy,  won't  you, 
for  all  the  lovely  things  He  brought  us.  I  suppose  you're 
writing  to  Him  now,  isn't  you?" 

From  Elizabeth  and  her  German  Garden 

Good  King  Wenceslas     ^;^     ^^     ^:>     -<;>     '<;:^ 

f^OOT)  King  Wenceslas  looked  out, 
^^'  On  the  Feast  of  Stephen, 
When  the  snow  lay  round  about, 
Deep,  and  crisp,  and  even: 

Brightly  shone  the  moon  that  night, 

Though  the  frost  was  cruel, 
When  a  poor  man  came  in  sight, 

Gath'ring  winter  fuel. 

"Hither,  page,  and  stand  by  me, 

If  thou  know'st  it,  telling, 
Yonder  peasant,  who  is  he? 

Where  and  what  his  dwelling?" 

*'Sire,  he  lives  a  good  league  hence. 

Underneath  the  mountain; 
Right  against  the  forest  fence. 

By  St.  Agnes'  fountain." 

"  Bring  me  flesh,  and  bring  me  wine, 

Bring  me  pine  logs  hither; 
Thou  and  I  will  see  him  dine. 

When  we  bear  them  thither." 

Page  and  monarch  forth  they  went, 
Forth  they  went  together; 
41 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Through  the  rude  wind's  wild  lament, 
And  the  bitter  weather. 

"  Sire,  the  night  is  darker  now, 

And  the  wind  blows  stronger; 
Fails  my  heart,  I  know  not  how, 

I  can  go  no  longer." 

"  Mark  my  footsteps,  good  my  page ! 

Tread  thou  in  them  boldly; 
Thou  shalt  find  the  winter's  rage 

Freeze  thy  blood  less  coldly." 

In  his  master's  steps  he  trod, 

Where  the  snow  lay  dinted; 
Heat  was  in  the  very  sod 

Which  the  saint  had  printed. 

Therefore,  Christian  men,  be  sure. 

Wealth  or  rank  possessing, 
Ye  who  now  will  bless  the  poor, 

Shall  yourselves  find  blessing. 

Version  by  John  Mason  Neale 


Jean  Valjean  plays  the  Christmas  Saint    -^^^    ^^ 

A  S  for  the  traveller,  he  had  deposited  his  cudgel  and 
■'^  ^  his  bundle  in  a  corner.  The  landlord  once  gone, 
he  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair  and  remained  for  some 
time  buried  in  thought.  Then  he  removed  his  shoes, 
took  one  of  the  two  candles,  blew  out  the  other,  opened  the 
door,  and  quitted  the  room,  gazing  about  him  like  a  person 
who  is  in  search  of  something.  He  traversed  a  corridor 
42 


Holiday   Saints  and  Lords 

and  came  upon  a  staircase.  There  he  heard  a  very  faint 
and  gentle  sound  like  the  breathing  of  a  child.  He  fol- 
lowed this  sound,  and  came  to  a  sort  of  triangular  recess 
built  under  the  staircase,  or  rather  formed  by  the  staircase 
itself.  This  recess  was  nothing  else  than  the  space  under 
the  steps.  There,  in  the  midst  of  all  sorts  of  old  papers 
and  potsherds,  among  dust  and  spiders'  webs,  was  a  bed  — 
if  one  can  call  by  the  name  of  bed  a  straw  pallet  so  full  of 
holes  as  to  display  the  straw,  and  a  coverlet  so  tattered  as 
to  show  the  pallet.   No  sheets.   This  was  placed  on  the  floor. 

In  this  bed  Cosette  was  sleeping. 

The  man  approached  and  gazed  down  upon  her. 

Cosette  was  in  a  profound  sleep;  she  was  fully  dressed. 
In  the  winter  she  did  not  undress,  in  order  that  she  might 
not  be  so  cold. 

Against  her  breast  was  pressed  the  doll,  whose  large 
eyes,  wide  open,  glittered  in  the  dark.  From  time  to  time 
she  gave  vent  to  a  deep  sigh  as  though  she  were  on  the 
point  of  waking,  and  she  strained  the  doll  almost  convul- 
sively in  her  arms.  Beside  her  bed  there  was  only  one  of 
her  wooden  shoes. 

A  door  which  stood  open  near  Cosette's  pallet  permitted 
a  view  of  a  rather  large,  dark  room.  The  stranger  stepped 
into  it.  At  the  further  extremity,  through  a  glass  door, 
he  saw  two  small,  very  white  beds.  They  belonged  to 
Eponine  and  Azelma.  Behind  these  beds,  and  half  hidden, 
stood  an  uncurtained  wicker  cradle,  in  which  the  little  boy 
who  had  cried  all  the  evening  lay  asleep. 

The  stranger  conjectured  that  this  chamber  connected 

with  that  of  the  Thenardier  pair.      He  was  on  the  point 

of  retreating  when  his  eye  fell  upon  the  fireplace  —  one 

of  those  vast  tavern  chimneys  where  there  is  always  so 

43 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

little  fire  when  there  is  any  fire  at  all,  and  which  are  so 
cold  to  look  at.  There  was  no  fire  in  this  one,  there  was 
not  even  ashes;  but  there  was  something  which  attracted 
the  stranger's  gaze,  nevertheless.  It  was  two  tiny  children's 
shoes,  coquettish  in  shape  and  unequal  in  size.  The 
traveller  recalled  the  graceful  and  immemorial  custom 
in  accordance  with  which  children  place  their  shoes  in  the 
chimney  on  Christmas  eve,  there  to  await  in  the  darkness 
some  sparkling  gift  from  their  good  fairy.  Eponine  and 
Azelma  had  taken  care  not  to  omit  this,  and  each  of  them 
had  set  one  of  her  shoes  on  the  hearth. 

The  traveller  bent  over  them. 

The  fairy,  that  is  to  say,  their  mother,  had  already 
paid  her  visit,  and  in  each  he  saw  a  brand-new  and  shining 
ten-sou  piece. 

The  man  straightened  himself  up,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  withdrawing,  when  far  in,  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
hearth,  he  caught  sight  of  another  object.  He  looked  at 
it,  and  recognized  a  wooden  shoe,  a  frightful  shoe  of  the 
coarsest  description,  half  dilapidated  and  all  covered  with 
ashes  and  dried  mud.  It  was  Cosette's  sabot.  Cosette, 
with  that  touching  trust  of  childhood,  which  can  always 
be  deceived  yet  never  discouraged,  had  placed  her  shoe 
on  the  hearth-stone  also. 

Hope  in  a  child  who  has  never  known  anything  but 
despair  is  a  sweet  and  touching  thing. 

There  was  nothing  in  this  wooden  shoe. 

The  stranger  fumbled  in  his  waistcoat,  bent  over  and 
placed  a  louis  d'or  in  Cosette's  shoe. 

Then  he  regained  his  own  chamber  with  the  stealthy 
tread  of  a  wolf. 

Victor  Hugo  in  Les  Miserables 
44 


Holiday  Saints  and  Lords 


Saint  Brandan     ^^>    ^^^    ^^^    ^^^    ^^^    ^"^^    <^ 

O  AINT  BRANDAN  sails  the  northern  main ; 
"^   The  brotherhoods  of  saints  are  glad. 
He  greets  them  once,  he  sails  again; 
So  late!   such  storms!     The  saint  is  mad! 

He  heard,  across  the  howling  seas, 
Chime  convent-bells  on  wintry  nights; 
He  saw,  on  spray-swept  Hebrides, 
Twinkle  the  monastery -lights; 

But  north,  still  north.  Saint  Brandan  steered; 
And  now  no  bells,  no  convents  more ! 
The  hurtling  Polar  lights  are  neared, 
The  sea  without  a  human  shore. 

At  last  (it  was  the  Christmas-night; 
Stars  shone  after  a  day  of  storm) 
He  sees  float  past  an  iceberg  white, 
And  on  it  —  Christ !  —  a  living  form. 

That  furtive  mien,  that  scowling  eye. 
Of  hair  that  red  and  tufted  fell, 
It  is  —  oh,  where  shall  Brandan  fly?  — 
The  traitor  Judas,  out  of  hell ! 

Palsied  with  terror,  Brandan  sate; 
The  moon  was  bright,  the  iceberg  near. 
He  hears  a  voice  sigh  humbly,  "  Wait ! 
By  high  permission  I  am  here. 
45 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"  One  moment  wait,  thou  holy  man ! 
On  earth  my  crime,  niy  death,  they  knew; 
My  name  is  under  all  men's  ban : 
Ah !   tell  them  of  my  respite  too. 

"  Tell  them,  one  blessed  Christmas-night 
(It  was  the  first  after  I  came, 
Breathing  self-murder,  frenzy,  spite, 
To  rue  my  guilt  in  endless  flame),  — 

*'  I  felt,  as  I  in  torment  lay 
'Mid  the  souls  plagued  by  heavenly  power, 
An  angel  touch  mine  arm,  and  say,  — 
'  Go  hence,  and  cool  thyself  an  hour ! ' 

"  '  Ah !   whence  this  mercy,  Lord  ?  '     I  said. 

*The  leper  recollect,'  said  he, 

'  Who  asked  the  passers-by  for  aid. 

In  Joppa,  and  thy  charity.' 

"  Then  I  remembered  how  I  went, 
In  Joppa,  through  the  public  street. 
One  morn  when  the  sirocco  spent 
Its  storms  of  dust  with  burning  heat; 

"  And  in  the  street  a  leper  sate, 
Shivering  with  fever,  naked,  old; 
Sand  raked  his  sores  from  heel  to  pate, 
The  hot  wind  fevered  him  fivefold. 

"  He  gazed  upon  me  as  I  passed. 
And  murmured,  'Help  me,  or  I  dieT 
46 


Holiday  Saints  and   Lords 

To  the  poor  wretch  my  cloak  I  cast, 

Saw  him  look  eased,  and  hurried  by. 

*  *  *  * 

"  Once  every  year,  when  carols  wake, 
On  earth,  the  Christmas-night's  repose, 
Arising  from  the  sinner's  lake, 
I  journey  to  these  healing  snows. 

"  I  stanch  with  ice  my  burning  breast, 
With  silence  balm  my  whirling  brain. 
O  Brandan !   to  this  hour  of  rest. 
That  Joppan  leper's  ease  was  pain." 

Tears  started  to  Saint  Brandan's  eyes; 
He  bowed  his  head,  he  breathed  a  prayer, 
Then  looked  —  and  lo,  the  frosty  skies ! 
The  iceberg,  and  no  Judas  there ! 

,   Matthew  Aiinold 


St.  Stephen's,  or  Boxing  Day    ^^    ^^    ^:>y    -^^ 

TN  old  England  St.  Stephen's  Day  is  chiefly  celebrated 
"^  under  the  name  of  Boxing  Day, —  not  for  pugilistic 
reasons,  but  because  on  that  day  it  was  the  custom  for 
persons  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life  to  go  the  rounds  with 
a  Christmas-box  and  solicit  money  from  patrons  and  em- 
ployers. Hence  the  phrase  Christmas-box  came  to  sig- 
nify gifts  made  at  this  season  to  children  or  inferiors,  even 
after  the  boxes  themselves  had  gone  out  of  use.  This 
custom  was  of  heathen  origin  and  carries  us  back  to  the 
Roman  Paganalia  when  earthen  boxes  in  which  money 
47 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

was  slipped  through  a  hole  were  hung  up  to  receive  con- 
tributions at  these  rural  festivals. 

Aubrey  in  his  "  Wiltshire  Collections  "  describes  a  trou- 
vaille  of  Roman  relics:  "Among  the  rest  was  an  earthen 
pot  of  the  color  of  a  crucible,  and  of  the  shape  of  a  Prentice's 
Christmas-box  with  a  slit  in  it,  containing  about  a  quart 
which  was  near  full  of  money.  This  pot  I  gave  to  the 
Repository  of  the  Royal  Society  at  Gresham  College." 

Of  the  Prentice's  Christmas-box,  a  recognized  institu- 
tion of  the  seventeenth  century,  several  specimens  are 
preserved,  —  small  and  wide  bottles  of  thin  clay  from  three 
to  four  inches  in  height,  surrounded  by  imitation  stoppers 
covered  with  a  green  baize.  On  one  side  is  a  slit  for  the 
introduction  of  money;  the  box  must  be  broken  before 
the  money  can  be  extracted. 

W.  P.  R. 


St.  Basil  in  Trikkola     ^>     <^     <^     ^c^y     ^^ 

nPRIKKOLA  is  very  Turkish,  having  only  been  in  Greek 
-*-  hands  for  eight  years ;  but  though  you  see  mosques  and 
latticed  windows  at  every  turn,  there  is  not  a  Greek  left; 
when  his  rule  is  over  the  Mussulman  packs  his  luggage; 
he  will  not  live  subject  to  the  infidel.  It  is  very  squalid 
indeed,  and  down  the  bazaar  ran  an  open  drain;  but  never- 
theless the  walk  by  the  river  is  pretty  and  towards  evening 
women  came  down  to  the  stream  to  wash  and  fetch  home 
water  in  quaint  round  bottles.  I  think  one  of  the  most 
marked  distinctions  between  Turk  and  Greek  is  white- 
wash. Greeks  love  whitewash;  houses,  churches,  public 
buildings  are  excessively  clean  outside,  and  promise  what 
48 


Holiday  Saints  and  Lords 

the  interior  fails  to  fulfill.  This  is  especially  remarkable 
at  Trikkola,  where  the  brown  mud  houses  of  Turkish  days 
are  being  rapidly  converted  into  white  Greek  ones. 

St.  Basil's  Eve  —  that  is  to  say  the  Greek  New  Year's 
Eve  —  is  a  very  marked  day  in  the  period  of  the  twelve  days, 
and  one  on  which  all  make  merry.  The  squalid  streets  of 
Trikkola  even  looked  bright  as  bands  of  gaily  dressed  chil- 
dren, nay,  even  grown-up  young  men,  went  round  singing 
the  Kalends  songs  —  Greek  Kalends  that  is  to  say,  which 
though  it  is  twelve  days  later  than  ours  came  at  last.  And 
on  this  the  eve  of  the  Kalends  these  bands  paraded  the 
streets,  each  carrying  a  long  pole  to  the  top  of  which  was 
tied  a  piece  of  brushwood,  within  which  was  concealed  a 
bell,  and  to  which  were  tied  many  scraps  of  colored  ribbon. 
At  each  house  the  singers  stopped.  The  inhabitants  came 
out  to  greet  them  and  offer  them  refreshments, —  figs,  nuts, 
eggs  and  other  food,  —  which  were  stowed  away  by  one  of 
the  band  who  carried  a  basket.  Their  songs  to  our  ears 
were  exceedingly  ugly,  long  chanted  stories.  I  asked  a 
priest  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  to  copy  down  one 
of  them,  of  which  the  following  is  a  rough  translation:  — 

From  Caesarea  came  the  holy  Basil; 
Ink  and  paper  in  his  hands  he  held. 
Cried  the  crowd  who  saw  him  coming, 
"Teach  us  letters,  dear  St.  Basil." 
His  rod  he  left  them  for  instruction  — 
His  rod  which  buds  with  verdant  leaves, 
On  which  the  partridges  sit  singing 
And  the  swallows  make  their  nests. 

Jangle  went  the  bell  in  the  brushwood  —  "the  thicket" 
as  they  call  it  —  and  out  came  the  housewife  when  the 
singing  was  over,  her  hands  full  of  homely  gifts,  in  return 
B  49 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

for  which  she  was  presented  with  one  of  the  silk  ribbons 
from  the  trophy.  This  she  will  keep  for  the  whole  of  the 
ensuing  year,  for  it  will  bring  her  good  luck.  And  after 
many  good  wishes  for  the  coming  year  the  troupe  moved 
on  to  another  house.  ...  It  seems  that  this  is  the  most 
favorite  Greek  method  of  celebrating  a  festive  season. 
The  people  in  no  way  resent  these  constant  visitors  and 
claims  on  their  hospitality;  nay,  rather  they  would  be 
deeply  hurt  if  the  bands  of  children  passed  them  by. 

J.  Theodore  Bent 


50 


Ill 

CHRISTMAS   CUSTOMS   AND 
BELIEFS 


OOME  sayes,  that  ever  'gainst  that  Season  comes 
*^  Wherein  our  Saviours  Birth  is  celebrated, 
The  Bird  of  Dawning  singeth  all  night  long: 
And  then  (they  say)  no  Spirit  can  walke  abroad, 
The  nights  are  wholesome,  then  no  Planets  strike. 
No  Faiery  talkes,  nor  Witch  hath  power  to  Charme: 
So  hallowed,  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. 

William  Shakespeare 


54 


The  Nativity  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ     ^^     ^::>' 

A 'X  THEN  the  world  had  endured  five  thousand  and  nine 
*  *  hundred  years,  after  Eusebius  the  holy  saint,  Octa- 
vian  the  Emperor  commanded  that  all  the  world  should  be 
described,  so  that  he  might  know  how  many  cities,  how 
many  towns,  and  how  many  persons  he  had  in  all  the  uni- 
versal world.  Then  was  so  great  peace  in  the  earth  that 
all  the  world  was  obedient  to  him.  And  therefore  our  Lord 
would  be  born  in  that  time,  that  it  should  be  known  that 
be  brought  peace  from  heaven.  And  this  Emperor  com- 
manded that  every  man  should  go  into  the  towns,  cities 
or  villages  from  whence  they  were  of,  and  should  bring 
with  him  a  penny  in  acknowledgment  that  he  was  subject 
to  the  Empire  of  Rome.  And  by  so  many  pence  as  should 
be  found  received,  should  be  known  the  number  of  the 
persons.  Joseph,  which  was  then  of  the  lineage  of  David, 
and  dwelleth  in  Nazareth,  went  into  the  city  of  Bethlehem, 
and  led  with  him  the  Virgin  Mary  his  wife.  And  when 
they  were  come  thither,  because  the  hostelries  were  all 
taken  up,  they  were  constrained  to  be  without  in  a  common 
place  where  all  people  went.  And  there  was  a  stable  for 
an  ass  that  he  brought  with  him,  and  for  an  ox.  In  that 
night  our  Blessed  Lady  and  Mother  of  God  was  delivered 
of  our  Blessed  Saviour  upon  the  hay  that  lay  in  the  rack. 
At  which  nativity  our  Lord  shewed  many  marvels.  For 
because  that  the  world  was  in  so  great  peace,  the  Romans 
had  done  made  a  temple  which  was  named  the  Temple 
of  Peace,  in  which  they  counselled  with  Apollo  to  know 
how  long  it  should  stand  and  endure.  Apollo  answered 
55 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

to  them,  that  it  should  stand  as  long  till  a  maid  had  brought 
forth  and  borne  a  child.  And  therefore  they  did  do  write 
on  the  portal  of  the  Temple:  Lo!  this  is  the  temple  of 
peace  that  ever  shall  endure.  For  they  supposed  well 
that  a  maid  might  never  bear  ne  bring  forth  a  child.  This 
temple  that  same  time  that  our  Lady  was  delivered  and 
our  Lord  born,  overthrew  and  fell  all  down.  Of  which 
christian  men  afterward  made  in  the  same  place  a  church 
of  our  Lady  which  is  called  Sancta  Maria  Rotunda,  that 
is  to  say,  the  Church  of  Saint  Mary  the  Round.  Also  the 
same  night,  as  recordeth  Innocent  the  third,  which  was 
Pope,  there  sprang  and  sourded  in  Rome  a  well  or  a 
fountain,  and  ran  largely  all  that  night  and  all  that  day  unto 
the  river  of  Rome  called  Tiber.  Also  after  that,  recordeth 
S.  John  Chrysostom,  the  three  kings  were  in  this  night  in 
their  orisons  and  prayers  upon  a  mountain,  when  a  star 
appeared  by  them  which  had  the  form  of  a  right  fair  child, 
which  had  a  cross  in  his  forehead,  which  said  to  these  three 
kings  that  they  should  go  to  Jersualem,  and  there  they 
should  find  the  son  of  the  Virgin,  God  and  Man,  which 
then  was  born.  Also  there  appeared  in  the  orient  three 
suns,  which  little  and  little  assembled  together,  and  were 
all  on  one.  As  it  is  signified  to  us  that  these  three  things 
are  the  Godhead,  the  soul,  and  the  body,  which  been  in 
three  natures  assembled  in  one  person.  Also  Octavian 
the  Emperor,  like  as  Innocent  recordeth,  that  he  was  much 
desired  of  his  council  and  of  his  people,  that  he  should 
do  men  worship  him  as  God.  For  never  had  there  been 
before  him  so  great  a  master  and  lord  of  the  world  as  he 
was.  Then  the  Emperor  sent  for  a  prophetess  named 
Sibyl,  for  to  demand  of  her  if  there  were  any  so  great  and 
like  him  in  the  earth,  or  if  any  should  come  after  him. 

56 


Christmas  Customs  and  Beliefs 

Thus  at  the  hour  of  mid-day  she  beheld  the  heaven,  and 
saw  a  circle  of  gold  about  the  sun,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
circle  a  maid  holding  a  child  in  her  arms.  Then  she  called 
the  Emperor  and  shewed  it  him.  When  Octavian  saw 
that  he  marvelled  over  much,  whereof  Sibyl  said  to  him: 
Hie  puer  major  te  est,  ipsum  adora.  This  child  is  greater 
lord  than  thou  art,  worship  him.  Then  when  the  Em- 
peror understood  that  this  child  was  greater  lord  than  he 
was,  he  would  not  be  worshipped  as  God,  but  worshipped 
this  child  that  should  be  born.  Wherefore  the  christian 
men  made  a  church  of  the  same  chamber  of  the  Emperor, 
and  named  it  Ara  coeli.  After  this  it  happed  on  a  night 
as  a  great  master  which  is  of  great  authority  in  Scripture, 
which  is  named  Bartholemew,  recordeth  that  the  Rod 
of  Engadi  which  is  by  Jerusalem,  which  beareth  balm, 
flowered  this  night  and  bare  fruit,  and  gave  liquor  of  balm. 
After  this  came  the  angel  and  appeared  to  the  shepherds 
that  kept  their  sheep,  and  said  to  them :  I  announce  and 
shew  to  you  a  great  joy,  for  the  Saviour  of  the  world  is 
in  this  night  born,  in  the  city  of  Bethlehem,  there  may 
ye  find  him  wrapt  in  clouts.  And  anon,  as  the  angel  had 
said  this,  a  great  multitude  of  angels  appeared  with  him, 
and  began  to  sing:  Honour,  glory  and  health  be  to  God 
on  high,  and  in  the  earth  peace  to  men  of  goodwill.  Then 
said  the  shepherds,  let  us  go  to  Bethlehem  and  see  this 
thing.  And  when  they  came  they  found  like  as  the  angel 
had  said.  In  this  time  Octavian  made  to  cut  and  enlarge 
the  ways  and  quitted  the  Romans  of  all  the  debts  that  they 
owed  to  him.  This  feast  of  Nativity  of  our  Lord  is  one 
of  the  greatest  feasts  of  all  the  year,  and  for  to  tell  all  the 
miracles  that  our  Lord  hath  shewed,  it  should  contain  a 
whole  book;   but  at  this  time  I  shall  leave  and  pass  over 

57 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

save  one  thing  that  I  have  heard  once  preached  of  a  wor- 
shipful doctor,  that  what  person  being  in  clean  life  desire 
on  this  day  a  boon  of  God,  as  far  as  it  is  rightful  and  good 
for  him,  our  Lord  at  the  reverence  of  this  blessed  high  feast 
of  his  Nativity  will  grant  it  to  him. 

From  The  Golden  Legend 

Folk-Lore  of  Christmas  Tide     ^^:>    ^^    '-^^^    -^^ 

SCOTTISH  folk-lore  has  it  that  Christ  was  born  "at  the 
hour  of  midnight  on  Christmas  Eve,"  and  that  the  mir- 
acle of  turning  water  into  wine  was  performed  by  Him  at  the 
same  hour.  There  is  a  belief  current  in  some  parts  of 
Germany  that  ''between  eleven  and  twelve  the  night  be- 
fore Christmas  water  turns  to  wine";  in  other  districts, 
as  at  Bielefeld,  it  is  on  Christmas  night  that  this  change 
is  thought  to  take  place. 

This  hour  is  also  auspicious  for  many  actions,  and  in 
some  sections  of  Germany  it  was  thought  that  if  one  would 
go  to  the  cross-roads  between  eleven  and  twelve  on  Christ- 
mas Day,  and  listen,  he  "would  hear  what  most  concerns 
him  in  the  coming  year."  Another  belief  is  that  "if  one 
walks  into  the  winter-corn  on  Holy  Christmas  Eve,  he  will 
hear  all  that  will  happen  in  the  village  that  year." 

Christmas  Eve  or  Christmas  is  the  time  when  the  oracles 
of  the  folk  are  in  the  best  working-order,  especially  the 
many  processes  by  which  maidens  are  wont  to  discover 
the  colour  of  their  lover's  hair,  the  beauty  of  his  face  and 
form,  his  trade  and  occupation,  whether  they  shall  marry 
or  not,  and  the  like. 

The  same  season  is  most  auspicious  for  certain  cere- 
monies and  practices  (transferred  to  it  from  the  heathen 
S8 


Christmas  Customs  and   Beliefs 

antiquity)  of  the  peasantry-  of  Europe  in  relation  to 
agriculture  and  allied  industries.  Among  those  noted  by 
Grimm  are  the  following:  — 

On  Christmas  Eve  thrash  the  garden  with  a  flail,  with 
only  your  shirt  on,  and  the  grass  will  grow  well  next 
year. 

Tie  wet  strawbands  around  the  orchard  trees  on  Christ- 
mas Eve  and  it  will  make  them  fruitful. 

On  Christmas  Eve  put  a  stone  on  every  tree,  and  they 
will  bear  the  more. 

Beat  the  trees  on  Christmas  night,  and  they  will  bear 
more  fruit. 

In  Herefordshire,  Devonshire,  and  Cornwall,  in  England, 
the  farmers  and  peasantry  "salute  the  apple-trees  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,"  and  in  Sussex  they  used  to  ''worsle,"  i.e.  "was- 
sail," the  apple-trees  and  chant  verses  to  them  in  some- 
what of  the  primitive  fashion. 

Some  other  curious  items  of  Christmas  folk-lore  are  the 
following,  current  chiefly  in  Germany. 

If  after  a  Christmas  dinner  you  shake  out  the  table- 
cloth over  the  bare  ground  under  the  open  sky,  crumb- 
wort  will  grow  on  the  spot. 

If  on  Christmas  Day,  or  Christmas  Eve,  you  hang  a 
wash-clout  on  a  hedge,  and  then  groom  the  horses  with  it, 
they  will  grow  fat. 

As  often  as  the  cock  crows  on  Christmas  Eve,  the  quarter 
of  corn  will  be  as  dear. 

If  a  dog  howls  the  night  before  Christmas,  it  will  go 
mad  within  the  year. 

If  the  light  is  let  go  out  on  Christmas  Eve,  some  one  in 
the  house  will  die. 

When  lights  are  brought  in  on  Christmas  Eve,  if  any  one's 
59 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

shadow  has  no  head,  he  will  die  within  a  year;    if  half  a 
head,  in  the  second  half-year. 

If  a  hoop  comes  off  a  cask  on  Christmas  Eve,  some  one 
in  the  house  will  die  that  year. 

If  on  Christmas  Eve  you  make  a  little  heap  of  salt  on  the 
table,  and  it  melts  over  night,  you  will  die  the  next  year; 
if,  in  the  morning,  it  remain  undiminished,  you  will  live. 

If  you  wear  something  sewed  with  thread  spun  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  no  vermin  will  stick  to  you. 

If  a  shirt  be  spun,  woven,  and  sewed  by  a  pure,  chaste 
maiden  on  Christmas  Day,  it  will  be  proof  against  lead  or 
steel. 

If  you  are  born  at  sermon-time  on  Christmas  morning, 
you  can  see  spirits. 

If  you  burn  elder  on  Christmas  Eve,  you  will  have 
revealed  to  you  all  the  witches  and  sorcerers  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

If  you  steal  hay  the  night  before  Christmas,  and  give 
the  cattle  some,  they  thrive,  and  you  are  not  caught  in  any 
future  thefts. 

If  you  steal  anything  at  Christmas  without  being  caught, 
you  can  steal  safely  for  a  year. 

If  you  eat  no  beans  on  Christmas  Eve,  you  will  become 
an  ass. 

If  you  eat  a  raw  egg,  fasting,  on  Christmas  morning, 
you  can  carry  heavy  weights. 

The  crumbs  saved  up  on  three  Christmas  Eves  are  good 
to  give  as  physic  to  one  who  is  disappointed. 

It  is  unlucky  to  carry  anything  forth  from  the  house  on 
Christmas  morning  until  something  has  been  brought  in. 

It  is  unlucky  to  give  a  neighbour  a  live  coal  to  kindle  a 
fire  with  on  Christmas  morning. 
60 


Christmas  Customs  and  Beliefs 

If  the  fire  burns  brightly  on  Christmas  morning,  it  be- 
tokens prosperity  during  the  year;  if  it  smoulders,  adver- 
sity. 

These,  and  many  other  practices,  ceremonies,  beliefs, 
and  superstitions,  which  may  be  read  in  Grimm,  Gregor, 
Henderson,  De  Gubernatis,  Ortwein,  Tilte,  and  others  who 
have  written  of  Christmas,  show  the  importance  attached 
in  the  folk-mind  to  the  time  of  the  birth  of  Christ,  and  how 
around  it  as  a  centre  have  fixed  themselves  hundreds  of 
the  rites  and  solemnities  of  passing  heathendom,  with  its 
recognition  of  the  kinship  of  all  nature,  out  of  which  grew 
astrology,  magic,  and  other  pseudo-sciences. 

Collected  by  A.  F.  Chamberlain 

/^^HRISTMAS  succeeds  the  Saturnalia,  the  same  time, 
^^  the  same  number  of  Holy-days;  then  the  Master 
waited  upon  the  Servant  like  the  Lord  of  Misrule. 

Our  Meats  and  our  Sports,  much  of  them,  have  Relation 
to  Church-works.  The  Coffin  of  our  Christmas-Pies,  in 
shape  long,  is  in  Imitation  of  the  Cratch;  our  choosing 
Kings  and  Queens  on  Twelfth-Night,  hath  reference  to 
the  three  Kings.  So  likewise  our  eating  of  Fritters,  whip- 
ping of  Tops,  roasting  of  Herrings,  Jack  of  Lents,  etc., 
they  were  all  in  imitation  of  Church-works,  Emblems  of 
Martyrdom.  The  Table-Talk  of  John  Selden 

Hunting  the  Wren    <^     ^^     <^     ^:^     ^oy     ^;^ 

'T*HE  custom,  which  is  called  ''hunting  the  wren,"  is 

-*-    generally  practised  by  the  peasantry  of  the  south  of 

Ireland  on  St.  Stephen's  Day.     It  bears  a  close  resemblance 

to   the   Manx   proceedings   described   by  Waldron,  —  as 

6i 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

taking  place  however  on  a  different  day.  "On  the  24th 
of  December,"  says  that  writer,  in  his  account  of  the  Isle 
of  Man,  "towards  evening  the  servants  in  general  have  a 
holiday;  they  go  not  to  bed  all  night,  but  ramble  about  till 
the  bells  ring  in  all  the  churches,  which  is  at  twelve  o'clock. 
Prayers  being  over,  they  go  to  hunt  the  wren;  and  after 
having  found  one  of  these  poor  birds,  they  kill  her  and  lay 
her  on  a  bier  with  the  utmost  solemnity,  bringing  her  to 
the  parish  church  and  burying  her  with  a  whimsical  kind 
of  solemnity,  singing  dirges  over  her  in  the  Manx  language, 
which  they  call  her  knell;  after  which  Christmas  begins." 
The  Wren-boys  in  Ireland,  who  are  also  called  Droleens, 
go  from  house  to  house  for  the  purpose  of  levying  contri- 
butions, carrying  one  or  more  of  these  birds  in  the  midst 
of  a  bush  of  holly,  gaily  decorated  with  colored  ribbons; 
which  birds  they  have,  like  the  Manx  mummers,  employed 
their  morning  in  killing.  The  following  is  their  song; 
of  which  they  deliver  themselves  in  most  monotonous 
music:  — 

"The  wren,  the  wren,  the  king  of  all  birds, 
St.  Stephen's-day  was  caught  in  the  furze, 
Although  he  is  little,  his  family's  great. 
I  pray  you,  good  landlady,  give  us  a  treat, 

"My  box  would  speak,  if  it  had  but  a  tongue, 
And  two  or  three  shillings  would  do  it  no  wrong; 
Sing  holly,  sing  ivy  —  sing  ivy,  sing  holly, 
A  drop  just  to  drink,  it  would  drown  melancholy. 

"And  if  you  draw  it  of  the  best, 
I  hope,  in  heaven  your  soul  will  rest; 
But  if  you  draw  it  of  the  small. 
It  won't  agree  with  these  Wren-boys  at  all." 
62 


Christmas  Customs  and  Beliefs 

If  an  immediate  acknowledgment,  either  in  money  or 
drink,  is  not  made  in  return  for  the  civihty  of  their  visit, 
some  such  nonsensical  verses  as  the  following  are  added :  — 

"Last  Christmas-day,  I  turned  the  spit, 
I  burned  my  fingers  (I  feel  it  yet), 
A  cock  sparrow  flew  over  the  table, 
The  dish  began  to  fight  with  the  ladle. 

"The  spit  got  up  like  a  naked  man, 
And  swore  he'd  fight  with  the  dripping  pan; 
The  pan  got  up  and  cocked  his  tail, 
And  swore  he'd  send  them  all  to  jail." 

The  story  told  to  account  for  the  title  of  "king  of  all 
birds,"  here  given  to  the  wren,  is  a  curious  sample  of  Irish 
ingenuity,  and  is  thus  stated  in  the  clever  "Tales  of  the 
Munster  Festivals,"  by  an  Irish  servant  in  answer  to  his 
master's  inquiry :  — 

"Saint  Stephen  !  why,  what  the  mischief,  I  ask  you  again, 
have  I  to  do  with  Saint  Stephen?" 

"Nothen,  sure,  sir,  only  this  being  his  day,  when  all  the 
boys  o'  the  place  go  about  that  way  with  the  wran,  the  king 
of  all  birds,  sir,  as  they  say  (bekays  wanst  when  all  the 
birds  wanted  to  choose  a  king,  and  they  said  they'd  have 
the  bird  that  would  fly  highest,  the  aigle  flew  higher  than 
any  of  'em,  till  at  last  when  he  couldn't  fly  an  inch  higher, 
a  little  rogue  of  a  wran  that  was  a-hide  under  his  wing  took 
a  fly  above  him  a  piece,  and  was  crowned  king,  of  the  aigle 
an'  all,  sir),  tied  in  the  middle  o'  the  holly  that  way  you  see, 
sir,  by  the  leg,  that  is.     An  old  custom,  sir." 

Vainly  have  we  endeavored  to  arrive  at  the  probable 
origin  of  hunting  and  killing  these  little  birds  upon  this 
day.  The  tradition  commonly  related  is  by  no  means 
satisfactory.     It  is  said  that  a  Danish  army  would  have 

63 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

been  surprised  and  destroyed  by  some  Irish  troops,  had 
not  a  wren  given  the  alarm  by  pecking  at  some  crumbs 
upon  a  drum-head,  —  the  remains  of  the  sleeping  drum- 
mer's supper;  which  roused  him,  when  he  instantly  beat 
to  arms.  And  that  from  this  circumstance  the  wren  became 
an  object  of  hatred  to  the  Irish. 

T.  K.  Hervey 

The  Presepio     ^^^     ^^     ^^^     ^^^     ^^^     ^^^     '^^ 

A  FTER  Christmas  Day,  during  the  remainder  of  De- 
-^^  cember,  there  is  a  Presepio,  or  representation  of  the 
manger  in  which  our  Savior  was  laid,  to  be  seen  in  many 
of  the  churches  at  Rome.  That  of  the  Ara  Coeli  is  best 
worth  seeing ;  which  church  occupies  the  site  of  the  temple 
of  Jupiter,  and  is  adorned  with  some  of  its  beautiful  pillars. 
On  entering  we  found  daylight  completely  excluded 
from  the  church;  and  until  we  advanced  we  did  not  per- 
ceive the  artificial  light,  which  was  so  managed  as  to  stream 
in  fluctuating  rays  from  intervening  silvery  clouds,  and  shed 
a  radiance  over  the  lovely  babe  and  bending  mother,  who 
in  a  most  graceful  attitude  lightly  holds  up  the  drapery 
which  half  conceals  her  sleeping  infant  from  the  bystanders. 
He  lies  in  richly  embroidered  swaddling  clothes,  and  his 
person  as  well  as  that  of  His  virgin  mother,  is  ornamented 
with  diamonds  and  other  precious  stones;  for  which  pur- 
pose we  are  informed  the  princesses  and  ladies  of  high 
rank  lend  their  jewels.  Groups  of  cattle  grazing,  peasantry 
engaged  in  different  occupations,  and  other  objects  enliven 
the  picturesque  scenery;  every  living  creature  in  the  group, 
with  eyes  directed  towards  the  Presepio,  falls  prostrate  in 
adoration.  From  Hone's  Year  Book 

64 


Christmas   Customs  and   Beliefs 

Hodening  in  Kent     -<;:y     ^>     ^^     ^^     ^::>     ^^ 

"X  1  THEN  I  was  a  lad,  about  forty -five  years  since,  it  was 
*  ''  always  the  custom  on  Christmas  Eve,  with  the  male 
farm-servants  from  every  farm  in  our  parish,  to  go  round 
in  the  evening  from  house  to  house  with  the  hodening  horse, 
which  consisted  of  the  imitation  of  a  horse's  head  made 
of  wood,  hfe  size,  fixed  on  a  stick  about  the  length  of  a 
broom  handle.  The  lower  jaw  of  the  head  was  made  to 
open  with  hinges;  a  hole  was  made  through  the  roof  of 
the  mouth,  then  another  through  the  forehead  coming  out 
by  the  throat;  pulled  through  this  was  passed  a  cord  at- 
tached at  the  lower  jaw,  which,  when  pulled  by  the  cord  at 
the  throat,  caused  it  to  close  and  open ;  on  the  lower  jaw 
large  headed  hobnails  were  driven  in  to  form  the  teeth. 
The  strongest  of  the  lads  was  selected  for  the  horse;  he 
stooped  and  made  as  long  a  back  as  he  could,  supporting 
himself  by  the  stick  carrying  the  head;  then  he  was  cov- 
ered with  a  horse-cloth,  and  one  of  his  companions  mounted 
his  back.  The  horse  had  a  bridle  and  reins.  Then  com- 
menced the  kicking,  rearing,  jumping,  etc.,  and  the  banging 
together  of  the  teeth. 

There  was  no  singing  by  the  accompanying  paraders. 
They  simply  by  ringing  or  knocking  at  the  houses  on  their 
way  summoned  the  inmates  to  the  doors  and  begged  a 
gratuity.  I  have  seen  some  of  the  wooden  heads  carved 
out  quite  hollow  in  the  throat  part,  and  two  holes  bored 
through  the  forehead  to  form  the  eyes.  The  lad  who 
played  the  horse  would  hold  a  lighted  candle  in  the  hollow, 
and  you  can  imagine  how  horrible  it  was  to  any  one  who 
opened  the  door  to  see  such  a  thing  close  to  his  eyes. 
A  contributor  to  the  Church  Times,  Jan.  23,  1891 

E  65 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Origin  of  the  Christmas  Tree     ^^:^     ^;^    ^^:^    ^>. 

A  SCANDINAVIAN  myth  of  great  antiquity  speaks  of 
-^  ^  a  "service  tree"  sprung  from  the  blood-drenched  soil 
where  two  lovers  had  been  killed  by  violence.  At  certain 
nights  in  the  Christmas  season  mysterious  lights  were 
seen  flaming  in  its  branches,  that  no  wind  could  extinguish. 

One  tale  describes  Martin  Luther  as  attempting  to  ex- 
plain to  his  wife  and  children  the  beauty  of  a  snow-covered 
forest  under  the  glittering  star  besprinkled  sky.  Sud- 
denly an  idea  suggested  itself.  He  went  into  the  garden, 
cut  off  a  little  fir  tree,  dragged  it  into  the  nursery,  put  some 
candles  on  its  branches  and  lighted  them. 

"It  has  been  explained,"  says  another  authority,  "  as  be- 
ing derived  from  the  ancient  Egyptian  practice  of  decking 
houses  at  the  time  of  the  winter  solstice  with  branches  of 
the  date  palm  —  the  symbol  of  life  triumphant  over  death, 
and  therefore  of  perennial  life  in  the  renewal  of  each  boun- 
teous year."  The  Egyptians  regarded  the  date  palm  as 
the  emblem  not  only  of  immortality,  but  also  of  the  starlit 
firmament. 

Some  of  its  traditions  may  have  been  strongly  influenced 
by  the  fact  that  about  this  time  the  Jews  celebrated  their 
Feast  of  Chanuckah  or  Lights,  known  also  as  the  Feast  of 
Dedication,  of  which  lighted  candles  are  a  feature.  In 
Germany,  the  name  for  Christmas  Eve  is  Weihnacht,  the 
Night  of  Dedication,  while  in  Greece  at  about  this  season 
the  celebration  is  called  the  Feast  of  Lights. 

As  a  regular  institution,  however,  it  can  be  traced  back 

only  to  the  sixteenth  century.     During  the  Middle  Ages 

it  suddenly  appears  in  Strassburg;    it  maintained  itself 

along  the  Rhine  for  two  hundred  years,  when  suddenly 

66 


Christmas  Customs  and  Beliefs 

at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  fashion 
spread  all  over  Germany,  and  by  fifty  years  later  had  con- 
quered Christendom. 

W.  S.  Walsh  in  Curiosities  of  Popular  Customs 
(condensed) 

Origin  of  the  Christmas  Card    -^^    ^^:>    ^^    ^:^ 

TTHE  Christmas  Card  is  the  legitimate  descendant  of 
-^  the  "school  pieces"  or  ''Christmas  pieces"  which 
were  popular  from  the  beginning  to  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  These  were  sheets  of  writing-paper 
sometimes  surrounded  with  those  hideous  and  elaborate 
pen  flourishes  forming  birds,  scrolls,  etc.,  so  unnaturally 
dear  to  the  hearts  of  writing  masters,  and  sometimes 
headed  with  copper-plate  engravings,  plain  or  colored. 
These  were  used  by  school  boys  at  the  approach  of  holi- 
days for  carefully  written  letters  exploiting  the  progress 
they  had  made  in  composition  and  chirography.  Charity 
boys  were  large  purchasers  of  these  pieces,  says  one  writer, 
and  at  Christmas  time  used  to  take  them  round  their  parish 
to  show  and  at  the  same  time  solicit  a  trifle. 

The  Christmas  Card  proper  had  its  tentative  origin  in 
1846.  Mr.  Joseph  Cundall,  a  London  artist,  claims  to 
have  issued  the  first  in  that  year.  It  was  printed  in  lithog- 
raphy, colored  by  hand,  and  was  of  the  usual  size  of  a 
lady's  card. 

Not  until  1862,  however,  did  the  custom  obtain  any  foot- 
hold. Then  experiments  were  made  with  cards  of  the  size 
of  an  ordinary  carte  de  visite,  inscribed  simply  "A  Merry 
Christmas"  and  *'A  Happy  New  Year."  After  that 
came  to  be  added  robins  and  holly  branches,  embossed 
67 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

figures  and  landscapes.  ''I  have  the  original  designs 
before  me  now,"  wrote  "Luke  Limner"  (John  Leighton) 
to  the  London  Publishers'  Circular,  Dec.  31,  1883:  "they 
were  produced  by  Goodall  &  Son.  Seeing  a  growing 
want  and  the  great  sale  obtained  abroad,  this  house  pro- 
duced (1868)  a  Little  Red  Riding  Hood,  a  Hermit  and  his 
Cell,  and  many  other  subjects  in  which  snow  and  the  robin 
played  a  part." 

W.  S.  Walsh  in  Curiosities  of  Popular  Customs 


The  Yule  Clog      ^:>      ^^      ^^^      ^^      ^^     ^^> 

A  MID  the  interior  forms  to  be  observed,  on  this  evening, 
-^^^  by  those  who  would  keep  their  Christmas  after  the 
old  orthodox  fashion,  the  first  to  be  noticed  is  that  of  the 
Yule  Clog.  This  huge  block,  which,  in  ancient  times,  and 
consistently  with  the  capacity  of  its  vast  receptacle,  was 
frequently  the  root  of  a  large  tree,  it  was  the  practice  to 
introduce  into  the  house  with  great  ceremony,  and  to  the 
sound  of  music. 

In  Drake's  "Winter  Nights"  mention  is  made  of  the 
Yule  Clog,  as  "  lying,  in  ponderous  majesty,  on  the  kitchen 
floor,"  until  "each  had  sung  his  Yule  song,  standing  on  its 
centre,"  —  ere  it  was  consigned  to  the  flames  that 
"Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide." 

This  Yule  Clog,  according  to  Herrick,  was  to  be  lighted  with 
the  brand  of  the  last  year's  log,  which  had  been  carefully 
laid  aside  for  the  purpose,  and  music  was  to  be  played 
during  the  ceremony  of  lighting. 

This  log  appears  to  have  been  considered  as  sanctifying 
the  roof-tree,  and  was  probably  deemed  a  protection  against 
68 


Christmas  Customs  and  Beliefs 

those  evil  spirits  over  whom  this  season  was  in  every  way 
a  triumph.  Accordingly,  various  superstitions  mingled 
with  the  prescribed  ceremonials  in  respect  of  it.  From 
the  authority  already  quoted  on  this  subject,  we  learn  that 
its  virtues  were  not  to  be  extracted  unless  it  were  lighted 
with  clean  hands  —  a  direction,  probably,  including  both 
a  useful  household  hint  to  the  domestics,  and,  it  may  be, 
a  moral  of  a  higher  kind :  — 

"Wash  your  hands  or  else  the  fire 
Will  not  tend  to  your  desire; 
Unwash'd  hands,  ye  maidens,  know, 
Dead  the  fire  though  ye  blow." 

Around  this  fire,  when  duly  lighted,  the  hospitalities  of  the 
evening  were  dispensed;  and  as  the  flames  played  about 
it  and  above  it,  with  a  pleasant  song  of  their  own,  the  song 
and  the  tale  and  the  jest  went  cheerily  round. 

T.  K.  Hervey 

Come  bring  with  a  Noise   ^^:^     -<::::y    ^^    ^:^    ^:^ 

/'"^OME  bring  with  a  noise, 
^^-^    My  merry  merry  boys, 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing; 

While  my  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  heart's  desiring. 

With  the  last  year's  brand 

Light  the  new  block,  and 
For  good  success  in  his  spending, 

On  your  psaltries  play, 

That  sweet  luck  may 
Come  while  the  log  is  a  tending. 

69 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Drink  now  the  strong  beer, 

Cut  the  white  loaf  here, 
The  while  the  meat  is  a  shredding, 

For  the  rare  mince-pies; 

And  the  plums  stand  by, 
To  fill  the  paste  that's  a  kneading. 

Robert  Herrick 


Shoe  or  Stocking        <^     <^     <::>     -^i^     ^;^     --^> 

TN  Holland,  children  set  their  shoes, 
-^    This  night,  outside  the  door; 
These  wooden  shoes  Knecht  Globes  sees, 
And  fills  them  from  his  store. 


But  here  we  hang  our  stockings  up 

On  handy  hook  or  nail; 
And  Santa  Claus,  when  all  is  still, 

Will  plump  them,  without  fail. 

Speak  out,  you  "  Sober-sides,"  speak  out, 

And  let  us  hear  your  views; 
Between  a  stocking  and  a  shoe. 

What  do  you  see  to  choose? 

One  instant  pauses  Sober-sides, 

A  little  sigh  to  fetch  — 
"Well,  seems  to  me  a  stocking's  best. 

For  wooden  shoes  won't  stretch!" 

Edith  M.  Thomas 

By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 
70 


Christmas  Customs  and  Beliefs 


Jule-Nissen 


^sii^      ^;:::iy      ^::::>-      ^^:^     -^c^      ^v::i>'      -'v::^ 


I  DO  not  know  how  the  forty  years  I  have  been  away 
have  dealt  with  " Jule-nissen,"  the  Christmas  elf 
of  my  childhood  in  far-off  Denmark.  He  was  pretty  old 
then,  gray  and  bent,  and  there  were  signs  that  his  time 
was  nearly  over.  So  it  may  be  that  they  have  laid  him 
away.  I  shall  find  out  when  I  go  over  there  next  time. 
When  I  was  a  boy  we  never  sat  down  to  our  Christmas 
Eve  dinner  until  a  bowl  of  rice  and  milk  had  been  taken 
up  to  the  attic,  where  he  lived  with  the  martin  and  its  young, 
and  kept  an  eye  upon  the  house  —  saw  that  everything 
ran  smoothly.  I  never  met  him  myself,  but  I  know  the 
house  cat  must  have  done  so.  No  doubt  they  were  well 
acquainted ;  for  when  in  the  morning  I  went  in  for  the  bowl, 
there  it  was,  quite  dry  and  licked  clean,  and  the  cat  purring 
in  the  corner.  So,  being  there  all  night,  she  must  have 
seen  and  likely  talked  with  him.  .  .  . 

The  Nisse  was  of  the  family,  as  you  see,  —  very  much 
of  it,  —  and  certainly  not  to  be  classed  with  the  cattle. 
Yet  they  were  his  special  concern;  he  kept  them  quiet, 
saw  to  it,  when  the  stableman  forgot,  that  they  were  prop- 
erly bedded  and  cleaned  and  fed.  He  was  very  well  known 
to  the  hands  about  the  farm,  and  they  said  that  he  looked 
just  like  a  little  old  man,  all  in  gray  and  with  a  pointed  red 
night-cap  and  long  gray  beard.  He  was  always  civilly 
treated,  as  indeed  he  deserved  to  be,  but  Christmas  was  his 
great  holiday,  when  he  became  part  of  it,  indeed,  and  was 
made  much  of.  So,  for  that  matter,  was  everything  that 
lived  under  the  husbandman's  roof  or  within  reach  of  it. 
Even  the  sparrows  that  burrowed  in  the  straw-thatch  and 
did  it  no  good  were  not  forgotten.  A  sheaf  of  rye  was  set 
71 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

out  in  the  snow  for  them  on  the  Holy  Eve,  so  that  on  that 
night  at  least  they  should  have  shelter  and  warmth  unchal- 
lenged, and  plenty  to  eat.  At  all  other  times  we  were  per- 
mitted to  raid  their  nests  and  help  ourselves  to  a  sparrow 
roast,  which  was  by  long  odds  the  greatest  treat  we  had. 
Thirty  or  forty  of  them,  dug  out  by  the  light  of  the  stable- 
lantern  and  stuffed  into  Ane's  long  stocking,  which  we 
had  borrowed  for  a  game-bag,  made  a  meal  for  the  whole 
family,  each  sparrow  a  fat  mouthful.  Ane  was  the  cook, 
and  I  am  very  certain  that  her  pot  roast  of  sparrow  would 
pass  muster  at  any  Fifth  Avenue  restaurant  as  the  finest 
dish  of  reed-birds  that  ever  was.  However,  at  Christmas 
their  sheaf  was  their  sanctuary,  and  no  one  as  much  as 
squinted  at  them.  Only  last  winter,  when  Christmas  found 
me  stranded  in  a  little  Michigan  town,  wandering  dis- 
consolate about  the  streets,  I  came  across  such  a  sheaf 
raised  on  a  pole  in  a  dooryard,  and  I  knew  at  once  that  one 
of  my  people  lived  in  that  house  and  kept  Yule  in  the  old 
way.     So  I  felt  as  if  I  were  not  quite  a  stranger. 

Blowing  in  the  Yule  from  the  grim  old  tower  that  had 
stood  eight  hundred  years  against  the  blasts  of  the  North 
Sea  was  one  of  the  customs  of  the  old  town  that  abide, 
however  it  fares  with  the  Nisse ;  that  I  know.  At  sun-up, 
while  yet  the  people  were  at  breakfast,  the  town  band 
climbed  the  many  steep  ladders  to  the  top  of  the  tower, 
and  up  there,  in  fair  weather  or  foul  —  and  sometimes  it 
blew  great  guns  from  the  wintiy  sea  —  they  played  four 
old  hymns,  one  to  each  corner  of  the  compass,  so  that  no 
one  was  forgotten.  They  always  began  with  Luther's 
sturdy  challenge,  "A  Mighty  Fortress  is  Our  God,"  while 
down  below  we  listened  devoutly.  There  was  something 
both  weird  and  beautiful  about  those  far-away  strains  in 
72 


THE   BELLS.    Blashfield. 


Christmas  Customs  and  Beliefs 

the  early  morning  light  of  the  northern  winter,  something 
that  was  not  of  earth  and  that  suggested  to  my  child's 
imagination  the  angels'  songs  on  far  Judean  hills. 
Even  now,  after  all  these  years,  the  memory  of  it  does  that. 
It  could  not  have  been  because  the  music  was  so  rare, 
for  the  band  was  made  up  of  small  store-keepers  and 
artisans  who  thus  turned  an  honest  penny  on  festive  occa- 
sions. Incongruously  enough,  I  think  the  official  town 
mourner,  who  bade  people  to  funerals,  was  one  of  them. 
It  was  like  the  burghers'  guard,  the  colonel  of  which  — 
we  thought  him  at  least  a  general,  because  of  the  huge 
brass  sword  he  trailed  when  he  marched  at  the  head  of 
his  men  —  was  the  town  tailor,  a  very  small  but  very 
martial  man.  But  whether  or  no,  it  was  beautiful.  I  have 
never  heard  music  since  that  so  moved  me.  When  the 
last  strain  died  away,  came  the  big  bells  with  their  deep 
voices  that  sang  far  out  over  field  and  heath,  and  our  Yule 
was  fairly  under  way. 

Jacob  Riis  in  The  Old  Town 

"Lame  Needles"  in  Euboea     ^^     ^^     ^>     ^>y 

TN  the  first  place,  it  must  be  clearly  understood  that 
•^  Christmas  time  to  a  Greek  is  by  no  means  considered 
as  festive;  in  fact  they  look  upon  the  twelve  days  which 
intervene  between  Christmas  and  Epiphany  rather  with 
abhorrence  than  otherwise;  it  is  to  them  the  season  when 
ghosts  and  hobgoblins  are  supposed  to  be  most  rampant; 
it  is  generally  cold,  ungenial  weather,  and  the  Greeks  of 
to-day,  like  their  ancestors,  live  contented  only  when  the 
warm  rays  of  the  life-giving  sun  scorch  them.  They  can 
get  up  no  enthusiasm  as  we  can  about  yule  logs  and  blaz- 
73 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

ing  fires,  for  they  have  nothing  to  warm  themselves  with 
save  small  charcoal  braziers  capable  of  communicating 
heat  to  not  more  than  one  limb  at  a  time;  all  the  festive 
energies  of  the  race  are  reserved  for  Carnival  and  Easter- 
tide, when  the  warmth  of  spring  enables  them  once  more  to 
enjoy  life  out-of-doors  —  the  only  one  tolerable  when  you 
know  what  their  low  dirty  houses  are  like.  .  .  . 

For  a  month  before  Christmas  every  pious  Greek  has 
observed  a  rigid  fast;  consequently  the  ''table"  which  on 
that  day  is  spread  in  every  house  produces  something  akin 
to  festivity.  On  a  small  round  table  was  placed  a  perfect 
mountain  of  maccaroni  and  cheese  —  coarse  sheep's- milk 
cheese  which  stung  the  mouth  like  mustard  and  left  a 
pungent  taste  which  tarried  therein  for  days.  There  were 
no  plates,  no  forks,  no  spoons.  What  a  meal  it  was  indeed, 
as  if  it  were  a  contest  in  gastronomic  activity !  I  was  left 
far  behind  in  the  contest,  and  great  was  my  relief  when  it 
was  removed  and  dried  fruits  and  nuts  took  its  place. 
To  drink  we  had  resinated  wine  —  that  is  to  say  wine 
which  had  been  stored  in  a  keg  covered  with  resin  inside, 
which  gives  the  flavor  so  much  relished  by  the  Greeks, 
but  which  is  almost  as  unpalatable  to  an  Englishman  as 
beer  must  be  to  those  who  drink  it  for  the  first  time.  The 
wine,  however,  had  the  effect  of  loosening  the  tongues  of 
my  friends,  who  had  been  too  busy  as  yet  to  talk,  and  they 
told  me  many  interesting  Christmas  tales. 

In  the  first  place  the  conversation  turned  on  certain 
spirits  called  "lame  needles,"  which  every  Euboean  woman 
of  low  degree  will  tell  you  visit  the  earth  at  this  season  of 
the  year;  one  lame  needle,  presumably  the  leader,  comes 
on  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  rest  of  the  tribe  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance on  Christmas  Day.  They  are  dreadful  creatures 
74 


Christmas   Customs  and   Beliefs 

to  look  upon,  and  according  to  my  friends,  they  live  in 
caves  whilst  on  earth,  near  which  no  wise  person  at  this 
season  of  the  year  will  venture. 

They  subsist,  like  the  Amazons  of  old,  on  snakes  and 
lizards,  and  sometimes  on  women,  if  they  are  lucky  enough 
to  entrap  one. 

These  demons  are  only  dangerous  at  night  from  sunset 
to  cockcrow.  When  not  engaged  in  dancing  the  lame 
needles  wander  about,  and  do  any  amount  of  mischief. 
It  is  their  custom  to  enter  houses  by  the  chimney,  so  every 
housewife  is  careful  at  this  season  of  the  year  to  leave  some 
embers  burning  all  night,  for  they  dread  fire  and  also 
crosses,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  at  Christmas  time  we 
see  so  many  whitewash  crosses  on  the  cottage  doors  in 
Greece.  .  .  .  When  Epiphany  comes  these  lame  needles 
are  forced  to  flee  again  underground;  but  before  they  go 
they  take  a  hack  at  the  tree  which  supports  the  world, 
and  which  one  day  they  will  cut  through.  In  appearance 
these  ugly  visitors  are  supposed  to  be  goat-footed  goblins, 
far  taller  than  any  man;  in  fact  I  should  imagine  that 
they  are  lineal  descendants  of  the  satyrs  of  old  still  haunting 
their  accustomed  purlieus.  ...  I  will  give  you  a  specimen 
of  one  of  the  stories  which  my  friends  told  me  when  I 
slightly  threw  discredit  on  the  above  described  apparitions. 
It  is  not  a  very  lively  one,  but  will  show  the  character  of  the 
Christmas  stories  which  are  current  in  Greece  to-day. 

"A  lame  needle  once  overheard  two  women  settling  to 
get  up  at  night  during  the  season  of  the  twelve  days  to 
leaven  bread  at  the  house  of  one  of  them.  Accordingly 
he  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  woman  who  was  going  to 
carry  her  dough  to  the  other's  house  and  pretended  to  be 
a  messenger  sent  to  hurry  her. 
75 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"  Fearing  nothing,  the  silly  woman  set  off  with  her  dough 
accompanied  by  the  uncanny  messenger.  When  they  had 
got  a  little  distance  the  lame  needle  turned  round  and  said, 
'Stop;  I  wish  to  eat  you !  Whereat  the  woman  recognized 
who  he  was,  and  mindful  of  the  fact  that  lame  needles  are 
very  inquisitive,  she  replied,  'Just  wait  till  I  tell  you  a  story.' 
It  was  very  long  and  very  interesting,  so  the  first  cock 
crew  before  it  was  finished.  'It  is  only  the  black  one; 
goon;  I  have  yet  time,' said  the  eager  lame  needle.  Then 
the  second  cock  crew,  and  he  said,  'It  is  only  the  red  one; 
I  have  nought  yet  to  fear.'  Just  as  the  woman  had  reached 
the  most  thrilling  part  of  her  story  the  third  cock  crew, 
'It  is  the  white  one,'  exclaimed  the  terrified  hobgoblin; 
'I  must  be  gone.'" 

I  am  sure  this  story  is  believed  by  the  peasants  of  Euboea. 

J.  Theodore  Bent 

Who  Rides  behind  the  Bells?     -^r^.    ^^    -^    ^:> 

/^UR  shabby  drawing-room  was  ablaze  with  red  candles ; 
^-^  and  what  with  holly  red  on  the  walls  and  the  snow 
banking  the  casements  and  bells  jingling  up  and  down 
the  avenue,  the  sense  of  Christmas  was  very  real.  For 
me,  Christmas  seems  always  to  be  just  past  or  else  on  the 
way;  and  that  sixth  sense  of  Christmas  being  actually 
Now  is  thrice  desirable. 

On  the  stroke  of  nine  we  two,  waiting  before  the  fire, 
heard  Nichola  on  the  basement  stairs;  and  by  the  way  in 
which  she  mounted,  with  labor  and  caution,  I  knew  that 
she  was  bringing  the  punch.  We  had  wished  to  have  it 
ready  —  that  harmless  steaming  punch  compounded  from 
my  mother's   recipe  —  v/hen   our  guests  arrived,  so  that 

76 


Christmas   Customs  and   Beliefs 

they  should  first  of  all  hear  the  news  and  drink  health  to 
Eunice  and  Hobart. 

Nichola  was  splendid  in  her  scarlet  merino  and  that 
vast  cap  effect  managed  by  a  starched  pillow-case  and  a 
bit  of  string,  and  over  her  arm  hung  a  huge  holly  wreath 
for  the  bowl's  brim.  When  she  had  deposited  her  fragrant 
burden  and  laid  the  wreath  in  place  she  stood  erect  and 
looked  at  us  solemnly  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  face 
wrinkled  in  all  directions  and  was  lighted  with  her  rare 
puckered  smile. 

"Mer — ry  Christmas!"  she  said. 

"Merry  Christmas,  Nichola!"  we  cried,  and  I  think 
that  in  all  her  years  with  us  we  had  never  before  heard  the 
words  from  her  lips. 

"Who  goes  ridin'  behind  the  sleigh-bells  to-night?"  she 
asked  then  abruptly. 

^'Who  rides?"  I  repeated,  puzzled. 

"Yes,"  Nichola  said;  "this  is  a  night  when  all  folk 
stay  home.  The  whole  world  sits  by  the  fire  on  Christmas 
night.  An'  yet  the  sleigh-bells  ring  like  mad.  It  is  not 
holy." 

Pelleas  and  I  had  never  thought  of  that.  But  there  may 
be  something  in  it.  Who  indeed,  when  all  the  world  keeps 
hearth-holiday,  who  is  it  that  rides  abroad  on  Christmas 
night  behind  the  bells? 

"Good  spirits,  perhaps,  Nichola,"  Pelleas  said,  smiling. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  Nichola  declared  gravely;  "that 
is  not  holy  either  —  to  doubt." 

"No,"  we  said,  "to  doubt  good  spirits  is  never  holy." 
Zona  Gale  in  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 


77 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Guests  at  Yule  "^     ^^    ^^^    <^     ^>     -^>    ^;::y 

TVrOEL !     Noel  1 

^  ^     Thus  sounds  each  Christmas  bell 

Across  the  winter  snow. 
But  what  are  the  little  footprints  all 
That  mark  the  path  from  the  church -yard  wall? 
These  are  those  of  the  children  waked  to-night 
From  sleep  by  the  Christmas  bells  and  light : 

Ring  sweetly,  chimes!     Soft,  soft,  my  rhymes! 
Their  beds  are  under  the  snow. 

Noel!     Noel! 

Carols  each  Christmas  bell. 

What  are  the  wraiths  of  mist 
That  gather  anear  the  window-pane 
Where  the  winter  frost  all  day  has  lain? 
They  are  soulless  elves,  who  fain  would  peer 
Within,  and  laugh  at  our  Christmas  cheer: 

Ring  fleetly,  chimes!     Swift,  swift,  my  rhymes! 
They  are  made  of  the  mocking  mist. 

Noel !     Noel ! 

Cease,  cease,  each  Christmas  bell ! 

Under  the  holly  bough. 
Where  the  happy  children  throng  and  shout, 
What  shadows  seem  to  flit  about? 
Is  it  the  mother,  then,  who  died. 
Ere  the  greens  were  sere  last  Christmastide  ? 

Hush,  falling  chimes!     Cease,  cease,  my  rhymes! 
The  guests  are  gathered  now. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
By  permission  of  Houghton  Miffiin  Company 

78 


IV 
CHRISTMAS   CAROLS 


^^. 


CHRISTMAS   CAROLS 


"  I  saw  Three  Ships  " 

"  Lordings,  listen  to  Our  Lay  " 

The  Cherry-Tree  Carol 

"  In  Excelsis  Gloria  " 

"  God  Rest  You  Merry,  Gentlemen  " 

The  Golden  Carol 

Caput  apri  refero  resonens  laudes  domino 

"  Villagers  All,  this  Frosty  Tide  " 

Holly  Song 

"  Before  the  Paling  of  the  Stars  " 

The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  Tune 

A  Carol  from  the  Old  French 

"  From  Far  Away  we  come  to  you  " 

A  Christmas  Carol 

A  Christmas  Carol  for  Children 


The  First  Christmas  Carol 

TJ^EAR  not:  for,  behold,  I  bring  you  good  tidings  of 
■^  great  joy,  which  shall  be  to  all  people.  For  unto  you 
is  born  this  day  in  the  city  of  David  a  Saviour,  which  is 
Christ  the  Lord. 

And  this  shall  be  a  sign  unto  you ;  ye  shall  find  the  babe 
wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes  lying  in  a  manger. 

Chorus 

Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on 
earth  peace,  goodwill  toward  men. 

St.  Luke's  Gospel 


82 


I  saw  Three  Ships     -<;>     ^:>     -^     ^>'     ^     ^ 

I  SAW  three  ships  come  sailing  in, 
On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day; 
I  saw  three  ships  come  sailing  in, 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

And  what  was  in  those  ships  all  three, 
On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day? 

And  what  was  in  those  ships  all  three, 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning? 

The  Virgin  Mary  and  Christ  were  there, 
On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day; 

The  Virgin  Mary  and  Christ  were  there, 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

Pray,  whither  sailed  those  ships  all  three, 
On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day? 

Pray,  whither  sailed  those  ships  all  three. 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning? 

O  they  sailed  into  Bethlehem, 

On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day,' 

O  they  sailed  into  Bethlehem, 

On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

And  all  the  bells  on  earth  shall  ring. 
On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day; 

And  all  the  bells  on  earth  shall  ring. 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

83 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

And  all  the  Angels  in  Heaven  shall  sing, 
On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day; 

And  all  the  Angels  in  Heaven  shall  sing, 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

And  all  the  souls  on  earth  shall  sing, 
On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day; 

And  all  the  souls  on  earth  shall  sing, 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

Then  let  us  all  rejoice  amain, 

On  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day; 

Then  let  us  all  rejoice  amain. 

On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

Old  English  Carol 


Lordings,  listen  to  Our  Lay      ^::>     ^::^     '^:>     <:^ 

T    ORDINGS,  listen  to  our  lay  — 
-■ — '  We  have  come  from  far  away 

To  seek  Christmas; 
In  this  mansion  we  are  told 
He  his  yearly  feast  doth  hold: 

'Tis  to  day! 
May  joy  come  from  God  above, 
To  all  those  who  Christmas  love. 

Lordings,  I  now  tell  you  true, 
Christmas  bringeth  unto  you 
Only  mirth; 

84 


Christmas   Carols 

His  house  he  fills  with  many  a  dish, 
Of  bread  and  meat  and  also  fish, 

To  grace  the  day. 
May  joy  come  from  God  above, 
To  all  those  who  Christmas  love. 

Lordings,  through  our  army's  band 
They  say  —  who  spends  with  open  hand 

Free  and  fast, 
And  oft  regales  his  many  friends  — 
God  gives  him  double  what  he  spends, 

To  grace  the  day. 
May  joy  come  from  God  above, 
To  all  those  who  Christmas  love. 

Lordings,  wicked  men  eschew, 
In  them  never  shall  you  view 

Aught  that's  good; 
Cowards  are  the  rabble  rout, 
Kick  and  beat  the  grumblers  out, 

To  grace  the  day. 
May  joys  come  from  God  above. 
To  all  those  who  Christmas  love. 

Lords,  by  Christmas  and  the  host 
Of  this  mansion  hear  my  toast  — 

Drink  it  well  — 
Each  must  drain  his  cup  of  wine. 
And  I  the  first  will  toss  off  mine: 

Thus  I  advise, 
Here  then  I  bid  you  all  Wassail, 
Cursed  be  he  who  will  not  say  Drinkhail. 

Earliest  Existing  Carol;    Thirteenth  Century 
8s 


The  Book  of  Christmas 
The  Cherry-Tree  Carol     ^>     ^^     ^^ 

A  S  Joseph  was  a-walking, 
•^^    He  heard  an  angel  sing, 
**This  night  shall  be  the  birth-time 
Of  Christ,  the  heavenly  King. 

**  He  neither  shall  be  born 
In  housen  nor  in  hall, 

Nor  in  the  place  of  paradise. 
But  in  an  ox's  stall. 

"  He  neither  shall  be  clothed 

In  purple  nor  in  pall, 
But  in  the  fair  white  linen 

That  usen  babies  all. 

**  He  neither  shall  be  rockM 

In  silver  nor  in  gold. 
But  in  a  wooden  manger 

That  resteth  on  the  mould." 

As  Joseph  was  a-walking. 
There  did  an  angel  sing, 

And  Mary's  child  at  midnight 
Was  born  to  be  our  King. 

Then  be  ye  glad,  good  people, 
This  night  of  all  the  year, 

And  light  ye  up  your  candles. 
For  his  star  it  shineth  clear. 


Old  English 


%6 


Christmas  Carols 

In  Excelsis  Gloria    ^^^     ^:>     ^s^     ^^^     ^>     ^^Ci* 

^"X  7'HEN  Christ  was  born  of  Mary  free, 

^  ^    In  Bethlehem,  in  that  fair  citie. 
Angels  sang  there  with  mirth  and  glee. 

In  Excelsis  Gloria/ 

Herdsmen  beheld  these  angels  bright, 

To  them  appearing  with  great  light. 

Who  said,  "  God's  Son  is  born  this  night," 

In  Excelsis  Gloria/ 

This  King  is  come  to  save  mankind, 
As  in  Scripture  truths  we  find. 
Therefore  this  song  have  we  in  mind, 

In  Excelsis  Gloria/ 

Then,  Lord,  for  thy  great  grace. 
Grant  us  the  bliss  to  see  thy  face, 
Where  we  may  sing  to  thy  solace. 

In  Excelsis  Gloria/ 
From  the  Harleian  MSS. 

God  Rest  You  Merry,  Gentlemen    ^c^     ^^^     ^::^ 

/^~^OD  rest  you  merry,  gentlemen, 
^-^    Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour, 

Was  born  upon  this  day; 
To  save  us  all  from  Satan's  power, 

When  we  were  gone  astray. 

87 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy^ 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
was  horn  on  Christmas  Day. 

In  Bethlehem  in  Jewry 
This  blessed  babe  was  born, 

And  laid  within  a  manger 
Upon  this  blessed  morn; 

The  which  His  mother  Mary- 
Nothing  did  take  in  scorn. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy,  — 

From  God,  our  Heavenly  Father, 

A  blessed  Angel  came. 
And,  unto  certain  shepherds, 

Brought  tidings  of  the  same; 
How,  that  in  Bethlehem  was  born 

The  Son  of  God  by  name. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, — 

The  Shepherds  at  those  tidings, 

Rejoiced  much  in  mind. 
And  left  their  flocks  a-feeding 

In  tempest,  storm,  and  wind. 
And  went  to  Bethlehem  straightway, 

This  blessed  Babe  to  find. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy,  — 

But  when  to  Bethlehem  they  came. 

Where  as  this  Infant  lay. 
They  found  him  in  a  manger 

Where  oxen  feed  on  hay, 


Christmas  Carols 

His  mother  Mary  kneeling 
Unto  the  Lord  did  pray. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy,  — 

Now  to  the  Lord  sing  praises 

All  you  within  this  place, 
And  with  true  love  and  brotherhood 

Each  other  now  embrace, 
This  holy  tide  of  Christmas 
All  others  doth  deface. 

O  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
was  born  on  Christmas  Day, 

Old  English 


The  Golden  Carol    ^^^     ^:>     ^^^     ^^     -^^     ^;:n». 

(Of  Melchior,  Balthazar,  and  Caspar,  the  Three  Kings  of  Cologne) 

"\  T  TE  saw  the  light  shine  out  a-far, 
^  *      On  Christmas  in  the  morning, 
And  straight  we  knew  Christ's  Star  it  was, 
Bright  beaming  in  the  morning. 
Then  did  we  fall  on  bended  knee, 
On  Christmas  in  the  morning, 
And  prais'd  the  Lord,  who'd  let  us  see 
His  glory  at  its  dawning. 

Oh !   ever  thought  be  of  His  Name, 

On  Christmas  in  the  morning, 
Who  bore  for  us  both  grief  and  shame. 

Afflictions  sharpest  scorning. 

89 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

And  may  we  die  (when  death  shall  come), 

On  Christmas  in  the  morning, 
And  see  in  heav'n,  our  glorious  home, 

The  Star  of  Christmas  morning. 

Old  English 

Caput  apri  refero  resonens  laudes  domino      ^ 

'T^HE  boar's  head  in  hands  I  bring, 
-■-     With  garlands  gay  and  birds  singing  1 
I  pray  you  all  help  me  to  sing, 
Qui  estis  in  conviviol 

The  boar's  head  I  understand, 

Is  chief  service  in  all  this  land, 

Wheresoever  it  may  be  found, 

Servitur  cum  sinapiol 

The  boar's  head  I  dare  well  say, 
Anon  after  the  twelfth  day. 
He  taketh  his  leave  and  goeth  away! 
Exivit  tunc  de  patriaf 

From  a  Balliol  MS.  of  about  1540 


Villagers  All,  this  Frosty  Tide  <:>     ^:^     ^:i^     ^;::> 

T  7ILLAGERS  all,  this  frosty  tide, 
*     Let  your  doors  swing  open  wide, 

Though  wind  may  follow,  and  snow  beside, 

Yet  draw  us  in  by  your  fire  to  bide; 
Joy  shall  he  yours  in  the  morning  t 
90 


Christmas  Carols 

Here  we  stand  in  the  cold  and  the  sleet, 
Blowing  fingers  and  stamping  feet, 
Come  from  far  away  you  to  greet  — 
You  by  the  fire  and  we  in  the  street  — 
Bidding  you  joy  in  the  morning  1 

For  ere  one  half  of  the  night  was  gone, 
Sudden  a  star  has  led  us  on, 
Raining  bliss  and  benison  — 
Bliss  to-morrow  and  more  anon, 
Joy  for  every  morning. 

Goodman  Joseph  toiled  through  the  snow  — 
Saw  a  star  o'er  a  stable  low; 
Mary  she  might  not  further  go  — 
Welcome  thatch,  and  litter  below ! 
Joy  was  hers  in  the  morning! 

And  then  they  heard  the  angels  tell 
'Who  were  the  first  to  cry  Nowell? 
Animals  all,  as  it  befell, 
In  the  stable  where  they  did  dwell ! 
Joy  shall  he  theirs  in  the  morning  P 

Quoted    in   The   Wind   in   the    Willows^   by   Kenneth 
Grahame 

By  permission  of  Charles  Scribner^s  Sons 


91 


The  Book  of  Christmas 


Holly  Song     -<::>      -^rv     ^=^^     ^c^     ^v>     ^;:^^ 


B' 


^LOW,  blow,  thou  winter  winde, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkinde, 
As  mans  ingratitude 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keene, 
Because  thou  art  not  scene, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh  ho,  sing  heigh  ho,  unto  the  greene 
Mostfrendship  is  fayning;  most  Loving,  meere  Jolly: 
Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly, 
This  Life  is  most  jolly. 

Freize,  freize,  thou  bitter  skie 
That  dost  not  bight  so  nigh 

As  benefitts  forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warpe, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharpe, 
As  freind  remembred  not. 
Heigh  ho,  sing  heigh  ho,  unto  the  greene  holly, 
Most  frendship  is  fayning;  most  Loving,  meere  folly: 
Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly. 
This  Life  is  most  jolly. 

William   Shakespeare 


Before  the  Paling  of  the  Stars  ^^     ^c>     -q>     ^^ 


"DEFORE  the  paling  of  the  stars, 
"^  Before  the  winter  morn, 
Before  the  earliest  cockcrow, 
Jesus  Christ  was  born : 
92 


Christmas  Carols 

Born  in  a  stable, 
Cradled  in  a  manger, 
In  the  world  His  hands  had  made 
Born  a  stranger. 

Priest  and  King  lay  fast  asleep 

In  Jerusalem, 
Young  and  old  lay  fast  asleep 

In  crowded  Bethlehem: 
Saint  and  Angel,  ox  and  ass. 

Kept  a  watch  together 

Before  the  Christmas  daybreak 

In  the  winter  weather. 

Jesus  on  His  Mother's  breast 

In  the  stable  cold, 
Spotless  Lamb  of  God  was  He, 

Shepherd  of  the  fold: 
Let  us  kneel  with  Mary  Maid, 

With  Joseph  bent  and  hoary. 
With  Saint  and  Angel,  ox  and  ass, 

To  hail  the  King  of  Glory. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti 


The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  Tune  " 

'  I  ^KE  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
-*-    To-night  beneath  my  cottage  eaves; 
While,  smitten  by  a  lofty  moon, 

The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves, 
Gave  back  a  rich  and  dazzling  sheen, 
That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 
93 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 
Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings: 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze, 
Nor  check  the  music  of  the  strings; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand. 

And  who  but  listened  ?  —  till  was  paid 

Respect  to  every  inmate's  claim: 
The  greeting  given,  the  music  played, 

In  honour  of  each  household  name, 
Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call. 
And  "merry  Christmas"  wished  to  all! 

For  pleasure  hath  not  ceased  to  wait 
On  these  expected  annual  rounds; 

Whether  the  rich  man's  sumptuous  gate 
Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds. 

Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 

That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 

How  touching,  when,  at  midnight,  sweep 
Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark, 

To  hear  —  and  sink  again  to  sleep ! 
Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark. 

By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 

Of  self-complacent  innocence. 

The  mutual  nod,  —  the  grave  disguise 
Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o'er; 

And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 

For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more; 
94 


Christmas   Carols 

Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 
For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid. 

*  H<  H«  *  * 

Hail,  ancient  Manners !  sure  defence, 
Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws; 

Remnants  of  love  whose  modest  sense 
Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws; 

Hail,  Usages  of  pristine  mould, 

And  ye  that  guard  them.  Mountains  old ! 

5p  JJC  ^  TfC  r{« 

Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find 
Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days, 

Moments,  to  cast  a  look  behind, 
And  profit  by  those  kindly  rays 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal. 

And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 

William  Wordsworth 


A  Carol  from  the  Old  French  ^:>     ^^     ^:>     ^y 

T  HEAR  along  our  street 
"''     Pass  the  minstrel  throngs; 

Hark !   they  play  so  sweet. 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  1 

Let  us  by  the  fire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  1 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes; 
Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
Pn  the  street  their  merry  rhymes. 
95 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Let  us  hy  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire! 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 

Where  the  Babe  was  born, 

Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 

Let  us  hy  the  fire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  I 

These  good  people  sang 

Songs  devout  and  sweet; 

While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 

Let  us  hy  the  fire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire! 
*  *  *  * 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 

Stamps  his  feet  and  sings; 

But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 

Let  us  hy  the  fire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 
A  Paraphrase  from  the  Old  French 


96 


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Christmas  Carols 

From  Far  Away      <;^     -^^     ^^     ^^>      -q>     ^;:> 

F^ROM  far  away  we  come  to  you. 

-*■      The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door, 

To  tell  of  great  tidings,  strange  and  true. 

Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  Jioor. 
From  far  away  we  come  to  you, 

To  tell  of  great  tidings,  strange  and  true. 

For  as  we  wandered  far  and  wide, 

The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door^ 
What  hap  do  you  deem  there  should  us  betide? 

Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 

Under  a  bent  when  the  night  was  deep, 

The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door. 

There  lay  three  shepherds,  tending  their  sheep. 
Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 

"O  ye  shepherds,  what  have  ye  seen, 

The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door, 

To  stay  your  sorrow  and  heal  your  teen?" 
Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 

"In  an  ox  stall  this  night  we  saw. 

The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door, 
A  Babe  and  a  maid  without  a  flaw. 

Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 

"There  was  an  old  man  there  beside; 

The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door, 
His  hair  was  white,  and  his  hood  was  wide. 

Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 
H  97 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"  And  as  we  gazed  this  thing  upon, 

The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door. 
Those  twain  knelt  down  to  the  little  one. 

Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 

"  And  a  marvellous  song  we  straight  did  hear, 
The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door. 

That  slew  our  sorrow  and  healed  our  care." 
Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 

News  of  a  fair  and  a  marvellous  thing, 

The  snow  in  the  street,  and  the  wind  on  the  door, 

Nowell,  Nowell,  Nowell,  we  sing. 
Minstrels  and  maids,  stand  forth  on  the  floor. 

Old  English  Carol 


A  Christmas  Carol    <::>     -^i^     ^^     ^^^     -^^     ^^^ 

**"\  1  THAT  means  this  glory  round  our  feet," 

^^      The  Magi  mused,  "more  bright  than  morn?" 

And  voices  chanted  clear  and  sweet, 
"To-day  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born !" 

*'  What  means  that  star,"  the  Shepherds  said, 
"That  brightens  through  the  rocky  glen?" 

And  angels,  answering  overhead. 

Sang,  "Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!" 

'Tis  eighteen  hundred  years  and  more 

Since  those  sweet  oracles  were  dumb; 
We  wait  for  Him,  like  them  of  yore; 

Alas,  He  seems  so  slow  to  come ! 

98 


Christmas  Carols 

But  it  was  said,  in  words  of  gold, 

No  time  or  sorrow  e'er  shall  dim, 
That  little  children  might  be  bold 

In  perfect  trust  to  come  to  Him. 

All  round  about  our  feet  shall  shine 
A  light  like  that  the  wise  men  saw, 

If  we  our  loving  wills  incline 

To  that  sweet  Life  which  is  the  Law. 

So  shall  we  learn  to  understand 
The  simple  faith  of  shepherds  then. 

And,  clasping  kindly  hand  in  hand, 

Sing,  "Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!" 

But  they  who  do  their  souls  no  wrong. 
But  keep  at  eve  the  faith  of  morn, 

Shall  daily  hear  the  angel-song, 

''To-day  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born !" 

James  Russell  Lowell 

A  Christmas  Carol  for  Children      ^c^      o      -oy 

/^~^OOD  news  from  heaven  the  angels  bring, 
^-'^    Glad  tidings  to  the  earth  they  sing: 
To  us  this  day  a  child  is  given, 
To  crown  us  with  the  joy  of  heaven. 

This  is  the  Christ,  our  God  and  Lord, 
Who  in  all  need  shall  aid  afford: 
He  will  Himself  our  Saviour  be. 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free. 
99 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

To  us  that  blessedness  He  brings, 
Which  from  the  Father's  bounty  springs: 
That  in  the  heavenly  realm  we  may 
With  Him  enjoy  eternal  day. 

All  hail,  Thou  noble  Guest,  this  morn, 
Whose  love  did  not  the  sinner  scorn ! 
In  my  distress  Thou  cam'st  to  me: 
What  thanks  shall  I  return  to  Thee? 

Were  earth  a  thoqsand  times  as  fair, 
Beset  with  gold  and  jewels  rare, 
She  yet  were  far  too  poor  to  be 
A  narrow  cradle.  Lord,  for  Thee. 

Ah,  dearest  Jesus,  Holy  Child! 
Make  Thee  a  bed,  soft,  undefiled, 
Within  my  heart,  that  it  may  be 
A  quiet  chamber  kept  for  Thee. 

Praise  God  upon  His  heavenly  throne, 
Who  gave  to  us  His  only  Son: 
For  this  His  hosts,  on  joyful  wing, 
A  blest  New  Year  of  mercy  sing. 

Martin  Luther 


TOO 


V 
CHRISTMAS    DAY 


The  Unbroken  Song 

T  HEARD  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day, 
-^   Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


104 


A  Scene  of  Mediaeval  Christmas     ^^      <^      <::iy 

LET  us  imagine  Christmas  Day  in  a  mediaeval  town  of 
Northern  England.  The  cathedral  is  only  partly 
finished.  Its  nave  and  transepts  are  the  work  of  Norman 
architects,  but  the  choir  has  been  destroyed  in  order  to  be 
rebuilt  by  more  graceful  designers  and  more  skillful  hands. 
The  old  city  is  full  of  craftsmen  assembled  to  complete  the 
church.  Some  have  come,  as  a  religious  duty,  to  work 
off  their  tale  of  sins  by  bodily  labor.  Some  are  animated 
by  a  love  of  art  —  simple  men  who  might  have  rivalled 
with  the  Greeks  in  ages  of  more  cultivation.  Others,  again, 
are  well-known  carvers  brought  for  hire  from  distant  towns 
and  countries  beyond  the  sea.  But  to-day,  and  for  some 
days  past,  the  sound  of  hammer  and  chisel  has  been  silent 
in  the  choir.  Monks  have  bustled  about  the  nave,  dressing 
it  up  with  holly  boughs  and  bushes  of  yew,  and  preparing 
a  stage  for  the  sacred  play  they  are  going  to  exhibit  on  the 
feast-day.  Christmas  is  not  like  Corpus  Christi,  and  now 
the  market-place  stands  inches  deep  in  snow,  so  that  the 
Miracles  must  be  enacted  beneath  a  roof  instead  of  in  the 
open  air.  And  what  place  so  appropriate  as  the  cathedral, 
where  poor  people  may  have  warmth  and  shelter  while  they 
see  the  show?  Besides,  the  gloomy  old  church,  with  its 
windows  darkened  by  the  falling  snow,  lends  itself  to 
candle-light  effects  that  will  enhance  the  splendor  of  the 
scene.  Everything  is  ready.  The  incense  of  morning 
mass  yet  lingers  round  the  altar.  The  voice  of  the  friar, 
who  told  the  people  from  the  pulpit  the  story  of  Christ's 
birth,  has  hardly  ceased  to  echo.  Time  has  just  been 
given  for  a  mid-day  dinner,  and  for  the  shepherds  and 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

farm  lads  to  troop  in  from  the  countryside.  The  monks 
are  ready  at  the  wooden  stage  to  draw  its  curtain,  and  all 
the  nave  is  full  of  eager  faces.  There  you  may  see  the 
smith  and  carpenter,  the  butcher's  wife,  the  country  priest, 
and  the  gray-cowled  friar.  Scores  of  workmen,  whose 
home  the  cathedral  for  the  time  is  made,  are  also  here, 
and  you  may  know  the  artists  by  their  thoughtful  foreheads 
and  keen  eyes.  That  young  monk  carved  Madonna  and 
her  Son  above  the  southern  porch.  Beside  him  stands 
the  master-mason,  whose  strong  arms  have  hewn  gigantic 
images  of  prophets  and  apostles  for  the  pinnacles  outside 
the  choir;  and  the  little  man  with  cunning  eyes  between 
the  two  is  he  who  cuts  such  quaint  hobgoblins  for  the  gar- 
goyles. He  has  a  vein  of  satire  in  him,  and  his  humor 
overflows  into  the  stone.  Many  and  many  a  grim  beast 
and  hideous  head  has  he  hidden  among  vine-leaves  and 
trellis-work  upon  the  porches.  Those  who  know  him 
well  are  loath  to  anger  him,  for  fear  their  sons  and  sons' 
sons  should  laugh  at  them  forever  caricatured  in  solid 
stone. 

Hark!  there  sounds  the  bell.  The  curtain  is  drawn, 
and  the  candles  blaze  brightly  round  the  wooden  stage. 
What  is  this  first  scene?  We  have  God  in  Heaven,  dressed 
like  a  pope  with  triple  crown,  and  attended  by  his  court  of 
angels.  They  sing  and  toss  up  censers  till  he  lifts  his 
hand  and  speaks.  In  a  long  Latin  speech  he  unfolds  the 
order  of  creation  and  his  will  concerning  man.  At  the 
end  of  it  up  leaps  an  ugly  buffoon,  in  goatskin,  with  rams' 
horns  upon  his  head.  Some  children  begin  to  cry;  but 
the  older  people  laugh,  for  this  is  the  Devil,  the  clown  and 
comic  character,  who  talks  their  common  tongue,  and  has 
no  reverence  before  the  very  throne  of  Heaven.  He  asks 
1 06 


Christmas  Day 

leave  to  plague  men,  and  receives  it;  then,  with  many  a 
curious  caper,  he  goes  down  to  Hell,  beneath  the  stage. 
The  angels  sing  and  toss  their  censers  as  before,  and  the 
first  scene  closes  to  a  sound  of  organs.  The  next  is  more 
conventional,  in  spite  of  some  grotesque  incidents.  It 
represents  the  Fall;  the  monks  hurry  over  it  quickly,  as 
a  tedious  but  necessary  prelude  to  the  birth  of  Christ. 
That  is  the  true  Christmas  part  of  the  ceremony,  and  it  is 
understood  that  the  best  actors  and  most  beautiful  dresses 
are  to  be  reserved  for  it.  The  builders  of  the  choir  in 
particular  are  interested  in  the  coming  scenes,  since  one 
of  their  number  has  been  chosen,  for  his  handsome  face 
and  tenor  voice,  to  sing  the  angel's  part.  He  is  a  young 
fellow  of  nineteen,  but  his  beard  is  not  yet  grown,  and  long 
hair  hangs  down  upon  his  shoulders.  A  chorister  of  the 
cathedral,  his  younger  brother,  will  act  the  Virgin  Mary. 
At  last  the  curtain  is  drawn. 

We  see  a  cottage  room,  dimly  lighted  by  a  lamp,  and 
Mary  spinning  near  her  bedside.  She  sings  a  country 
air,  and  goes  on  working,  till  a  rustling  noise  is  heard, 
more  light  is  thrown  upon  the  stage,  and  a  glorious  creature, 
in  white  raiment,  with  broad  golden  wings,  appears.  He 
bears  a  lily,  and  cries,  "Ave  Maria,  Gratia  Plena!"  She 
does  not  answer,  but  stands  confused,  with  down-dropped 
eyes  and  timid  mien.  Gabriel  rises  from  the  ground  and 
comforts  her,  and  sings  aloud  his  message  of  glad  tidings. 
Then  Mary  gathers  courage,  and,  kneeling  in  her  turn, 
thanks  God;  and  when  the  angel  and  his  radiance  dis- 
appears, she  sings  the  song  of  the  Magnificat,  clearly  and 
simply,  in  the  darkened  room.  Very  soft  and  silver  sounds 
this  hymn. through  the  great  church.  The  women  kneel, 
and  children  are  hushed  as  by  a  lullaby.  But  some  of 
107 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

the  hinds  and  'prentice-lads  begin  to  think  it  rather  dull. 
They  are  not  sorry  when  the  next  scene  opens  with  a  sheep- 
fold  and  a  little  camp-fire.  Unmistakable  bleatings  issue 
from  the  fold,  and  five  or  six  common  fellows  are  sitting 
round  the  blazing  wood.  One  might  fancy  they  had 
stepped  straight  from  the  church  floor  to  the  stage,  so 
natural  do  they  look.  Besides,  they  call  themselves  by 
common  names  —  Colin  and  Tom  Lie-a-bed  and  Nimble 
Dick.  Many  a  round  laugh  wakes  echoes  in  the  church 
when  these  shepherds  stand  up,  and  hold  debate  about  a 
stolen  sheep.  Tom  Lie-a-bed  has  nothing  to  remark  but 
that  he  is  very  sleepy,  and  does  not  want  to  go  in  search  of 
it  to-night;  Colin  cuts  jokes,  and  throws  out  shrewd  sus- 
picions that  Dick  knows  something  of  the  matter;  but  Dick 
is  sly,  and  keeps  them  off  the  scent,  although  a  few  of  his 
asides  reveal  to  the  audience  that  he  is  the  real  thief. 
While  they  are  thus  talking,  silence  falls  upon  the  shep- 
herds. Soft  music  from  the  church  organ  breathes,  and 
they  appear  to  fall  asleep. 

The  stage  is  now  quite  dark,  and  for  a  few  moments  the 
aisles  echo  only  to  the  dying  melody.  When,  behold,  a 
ray  of  light  is  seen,  and  splendor  grows  around  the  stage 
from  hidden  candles,  and  in  the  glory  Gabriel  appears  upon 
a  higher  platform  made  to  look  like  clouds.  The  shep- 
herds wake  in  confusion,  striving  to  shelter  their  eyes  from 
this  unwonted  brilliancy.  But  Gabriel  waves  his  lily, 
spreads  his  great  gold  wings,  and  bids  good  cheer  with 
clarion  voice.  The  shepherds  fall  to  worship,  and  suddenly 
round  Gabriel  there  gathers  a  choir  of  angels,  and  a  song 
of  "Gloria  in  Excelsis"  to  the  sound  of  a  deep  organ  is 
heard  far  off.  From  distant  aisles  it  swells,  and  seems  to 
come  from  heaven.  Through  a  long  resonant  fugue  the 
io8 


Christmas  Day 

glory  flies,  and  as  it  ceases  with  complex  conclusion,  the 
lights  die  out,  the  angels  disappear,  and  Gabriel  fades  into 
the  darkness.  Still  the  shepherds  kneel,  rustically  chanting 
a  carol  half  in  Latin,  half  in  English,  which  begins  "In 
dulci  Jubilo."  The  people  know  it  well,  and  when  the 
chorus  rises  with  "Ubi  sunt  gaudia?"  its  wild  melody  is 
caught  by  voices  up  and  down  the  nave.  This  scene  makes 
deep  impression  upon  many  hearts;  for  the  beauty  of 
Gabriel  is  rare,  and  few  who  see  him  in  his  angel's  dress 
would  know  him  for  the  lad  who  daily  carves  his  lilies  and 
broad  water-flags  about  the  pillars  of  the  choir.  To  that 
simple  audience  he  interprets  Heaven,  and  little  children 
will  see  him  in  their  dreams.  Dark  winter  nights  and 
awful  forests  will  be  trodden  by  his  feet,  made  musical  by 
his  melodious  voice,  and  parted  by  the  rustling  of  his  wings. 
The  youth  himself  may  return  to-morrow  to  the  workman's 
blouse  and  chisel,  but  his  memory  lives  in  many  minds  and 
may  form  a  part  of  Christmas  for  the  fancy  of  men  as  yet 
unborn. 

The  next  drawing  of  the  curtain  shows  us  the  stable  of 
Bethlehem  crowned  by  its  star.  There  kneels  Mary,  and 
Joseph  leans  upon  his  staff.  The  ox  and  the  ass  are  close 
at  hand,  and  Jesus  lies  in  jeweled  robes  on  straw  within 
the  manger.  To  right  and  left  bow  the  shepherds,  wor- 
shiping in  dumb  show,  while  voices  from  behind  chant  a 
solemn  hymn.  In  the  midst  of  the  melody  is  heard  the 
flourish  of  trumpets,  and  heralds  step  upon  the  stage,  fol- 
lowed by  the  three  crowned  kings.  They  have  come  from 
the  far  East,  led  by  the  star.  The  song  ceases,  while  drums 
and  fifes  and  trumpets  play  a  stately  march.  The  kings 
pass  by,  and  do  obeisance  one  by  one.  Each  gives  some 
costly  gift;  each  doffs  his  crown  and  leaves  it  at  the 
109 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Saviour's  feet.  Then  they  retire  to  a  distance  and  worship 
in  silence  like  the  shepherds.  Again  the  angels'  song  is 
heard,  and  while  it  dies  away  the  curtain  closes  and  the 
lights  are  put  out. 

The  play  is  over,  and  the  evening  has  come.  The  people 
must  go  from  the  warm  church  into  the  frozen  snow,  and 
crunch  their  homeward  way  beneath  the  moon.  But  in 
their  minds  they  carry  a  sense  of  light  and  music  and  un- 
earthly loveliness.  Not  a  scene  of  this  day's  pageant  will 
be  lost.  It  grows  within  them  and  creates  the  poetry  of 
Christmas.  Nor  must  we  forget  the  sculptors  who  listen 
to  the  play.  We  spoke  of  them  minutely,  because  these 
mysteries  sank  deep  into  their  souls  and  found  a  way  into 
their  carvings  on  the  cathedral  walls.  The  monk  who  made 
Madonna  by  the  southern  porch  will  remember  Gabriel 
and  place  him  bending  low  in  lordly  salutation  by  her  side. 
The  painted  glass  of  the  chapter-house  will  glow  with  fiery 
choirs  of  angels  learned  by  heart  that  night.  And  who 
does  not  know  the  mocking  devils  and  quaint  satyrs  that 
the  humorous  sculptor  carved  among  his  fruits  and 
flowers  ?  Some  of  the  misereres  of  the  stalls  still  bear  por- 
traits of  the  shepherd  thief,  and  of  the  ox  and  ass  who 
blinked  so  blindly  when  the  kings,  by  torchlight,  brought 
their  dazzling  gifts.  Truly  these  old  miracle-plays  and 
the  carved  work  of  cunning  hands  that  they  inspired  are 
worth  to  us  more  than  all  the  delicate  creations  of  Italian 
pencils.  Our  homely  Northern  churches  still  retain,  for 
the  child  who  reads  their  bosses  and  their  sculptured  fronts, 
more  Christmas  poetry  than  we  can  find  in  Fra  Angelico's 
devoutness  or  the  liveliness  of  Giotto.  Not  that  Southern 
artists  have  done  nothing  for  our  Christmas.  Cimabue's 
gigantic  angels  at  Assisi,  and  the  radiant  seraphs  of  Raphael 
no 


Christmas  Day 

or  of  Signorelli,  were  seen  by  Milton  in  his  Italian  journey. 
He  gazed  in  Romish  churches  on  graceful  Nativities,  into 
which  Angelico  and  Credi  threw  their  simple  souls.  How 
much  they  tinged  his  fancy  we  cannot  say.  But  what  we 
know  of  heavenly  hierarchies  we  later  men  have  learned 
from  Milton ;  and  what  he  saw  he  spoke,  and  what  he  spoke 
in  sounding  verse  lives  for  us  now  and  sways  our  reason, 
and  controls  our  fancy,  and  makes  fine  art  of  high  theology. 
John  Addington  Symonds 


Christmas  in  Dreamthorp    ^y    ^;:>    ^  .^^    ^:::y 

nPHIS,  then,  is  Christmas.  Everything  is  silent  in  Dream- 
■^  thorp.  The  smith's  hammer  reposes  beside  the  anvil. 
The  weaver's  flying  shuttle  is  at  rest.  Through  the  clear, 
wintry  sunshine  the  bells  this  morning  rang  from  the  gray 
church  tower  amid  the  leafless  elms,  and  up  the  walk  the 
villagers  trooped  in  their  best  dresses  and  their  best  faces 
—  the  latter  a  little  reddened  by  the  sharp  wind:  mere  red- 
ness in  the  middle  aged;  in  the  maids  wonderful  bloom 
to  the  eyes  of  their  lovers  —  and  took  their  places  decently 
in  the  ancient  pews.  The  clerk  read  the  beautiful  prayers 
of  our  Church,  which  seem  so  much  more  beautiful  at 
Christmas  than  at  any  other  period.  For  that  very  feel- 
ing which  breaks  down  at  this  time  the  barriers  which 
custom,  birth,  or  wealth  have  erected  between  man  and 
man,  strikes  down  the  barrier  of  time  which  intervenes 
between  the  worshipper  of  to-day  and  the  great  body  of 
worshippers  w^ho  are  at  rest  in  their  graves.  On  such  a 
day  as  this,  hearing  these  prayers,  we  feel  a  kinship  with 
the  devout  generations  who  heard  them  long  ago.  The 
III 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

devout  lips  of  the  Christian  dead  murmured  the  responses 
which  we  now  murmur;  along  this  road  of  prayer  did 
their  thoughts  of  our  innumerable  dead,  our  brothers  and 
sisters  in  faith  and  hope,  approach  the  Maker,  even  as 
ours  at  present  approach  Him. 

Prayers  over,  the  clergyman  —  who  is  no  Boanerges,  or 
Chrysostom,  golden-mouthed,  but  a  loving,  genial-hearted 
pious  man,  the  whole  extent  of  his  life,  from  boyhood  un- 
til now,  full  of  charity  and  kindly  deeds,  as  autumn  fields 
with  heavy,  wheaten  ears;  the  clergyman,  I  say  —  for  the 
sentence  is  becoming  unwieldy  on  my  hands  and  one  must 
double  back  to  secure  connection  —  read  out  in  that  silvery 
voice  of  his,  which  is  sweeter  than  any  music  to  my  ear, 
those  chapters  of  the  New  Testament  that  deal  with  the 
birth  of  the  Saviour.  And  the  red-faced  rustic  congrega- 
tion hung  on  the  good  man's  voice  as  he  spoke  of  the  In- 
fant brought  forth  in  a  manger,  of  the  shining  angels  that 
appeared  in  the  mid-air  to  the  shepherds,  of  the  miracu- 
lous star  that  took  its  station  in  the  sky,  and  of  the  wise 
men  who  came  from  afar  and  laid  their  gifts  of  the  frank- 
incense and  myrrh  at  the  feet  of  the  child.  With  the 
story  every  one  was  familiar,  but  on  that  day,  and  backed 
by  the  persuasive  melody  of  the  reader's  voice  it  seemed 
to  all  quite  new  —  at  least  they  listened  attentively  as  if  it 
were.  The  discourse  that  followed  possessed  no  remark- 
able thoughts;  it  dealt  simply  with  the  goodness  of  the 
Maker  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  the  shortness  of  time, 
with  the  duties  of  thankfulness  and  charity  to  the  poor; 
and  I  am  persuaded  that  every  one  who  heard  returned  to 
his  house  in  a  better  frame  of  mind.  And  so  the  service 
remitted  us  all  to  our  own  homes,  to  what  roast-beef  and 
plum-pudding    slender   means    permitted,   to   gatherings 

112 


Christmas  Day 

around  cheerful   fires,  to  half-pleasant,  half-sad   remem- 
brances of  the  dead  and  absent. 

Alexander  Smith 

By  the  Christmas  Fire     -^^     ^^^     "^r^     ^::^     ^c^ 

■\  T  THEN  the  fire  has  reached  a  degree  of  intensity  and 
^  *  magnitude  which  Rosalind  thinks  adequate  to  the 
occasion,  I  take  down  a  well-worn  volume  which  opens  of 
itself  at  a  well-worn  page.  It  is  a  book  which  I  have  read 
and  reread  many  times,  and  always  with  a  kindling  sym- 
pathy and  affection  for  the  man  who  wrote  it;  in  what- 
ever mood  I  take  it  up,  there  is  something  in  it  which 
touches  me  with  a  sense  of  kinship.  It  is  not  a  great 
book,  but  it  is  a  book  of  the  heart,  and  books  of  the  heart 
have  passed  beyond  the  outer  court  of  criticism  before  we 
bestow  upon  them  that  phrase  of  supreme  regard.  There 
are  other  books  of  the  heart  around  me,  but  on  Christmas 
Eve  it  is  Alexander  Smith's  "  Dreamthorp  "  which  always 
seems  to  lie  at  my  hand,  and  when  I  take  up  the  well- 
worn  volume  it  falls  open  at  the  essay  on  "  Christmas."  It 
is  a  good  many  years  since  Rosalind  and  I  began  to  read 
together  on  Christmas  Eve  this  beautiful  meditation  on  the 
season,  and  now  it  has  gathered  about  itself  such  a  host  of 
memories  that  it  has  become  part  of  our  common  past. 
It  is  indeed  a  veritable  palimpsest,  overlaid  with  tender 
and  gracious  recollections  out  of  which  the  original 
thought  gains  a  new  and  subtle  sweetness.  As  I  read  it 
aloud  I  know  that  she  sees  once  more  the  familiar  land- 
scape about  Dreamthorp,  with  the  low  dark  hill  in  the 
background,  and  over  it  "  the  tender  radiance  that  pre- 
cedes the  moon,"  the  village  windows  are  all  lighted  and 
I  113 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

the  "  whole  place  shines  like  a  congregation  of  glow- 
worms." There  are  the  skaters  still  "  leaning  against  the 
frosty  wind";  there  is  "the  gray  church  tower  amid  the 
leafless  elms,"  around  which  the  echoes  of  the  morning 
peal  of  Christmas  bells  still  hover;  the  village  folk  have 
gathered,  "in  their  best  dresses  and  their  best  faces";  the 
beautiful  service  of  the  church  has  been  read  and  answered 
with  heartfelt  responses,  the  familiar  story  has  been  told 
again  simply  and  urgently,  with  applications  for  every 
thankful  soul,  and  then  the  congregation  has  gone  to  its 
homes  and  its  festivities  —  all  these  things,  I  am  sure,  lie 
within  Rosalind's  vision  although  she  seems  to  see  nothing 
but  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  fire;  all  these  things  I  see  as  I 
have  seen  them  these  many  Christmas  Eves  agone;  but 
with  this  familiar  landscape  there  are  mingled  all  the 
sweet  and  sorrowful  memories  of  our  common  life,  recalled 
at  this  hour  that  the  light  of  the  highest  truth  may  inter- 
pret them  anew  in  the  divine  language  of  hope.  I  read 
on  until  I  come  to  the  quotation  from  the  "  Hymn  to  the 
Nativity  "  and  then  I  close  the  book,  and  take  up  a  copy 
of  Milton  close  at  hand. 

Hamilton  W.  Mabie  in  My  Study  Fire 
By  permission  of  Dodd,  Mead  6r=  Co. 


Ode  on  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity  ^^ 

'  I  ^HIS  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn 
-^    Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing 
114 


Christmas   Day 

That  He  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 

And  with  His  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  Form,  that  Light  unsufferable, 

And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  Majesty 

Wherewith  He,  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 

He  laid  aside;   and,  here  with  us  to  be, 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day. 

And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

AfiFord  a  present  to  the  Infant  God  ? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain 

To  welcome  Him  to  this  His  new  abode 

Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light. 

And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons  bright? 

See  how  from  far,  upon  the  eastern  road. 

The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet: 

O  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode 

And  lay  it  lowly  at  His  blessed  feet; 

Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  Angel  quire 

From  out  His  secret  altar  touched  with  hallow'd  fire. 


The  Hymn 

It  was  the  winter  wild 

While  the  heaven-born  Child 

All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 

Nature  in  awe  to  Him 

115 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Had  doff' d  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize: 

It  was  no  season  then  for  her 

To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 

She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow; 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame. 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw; 

Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease. 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace; 

She,  crown'd  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 

His  ready  harbinger. 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing; 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 

She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound 

Was  heard  the  world  around: 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 

Unstain'd  with  hostile  blood; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

ii6 


Christmas  Day 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began; 

The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 

Smoothly,  the  waters  kist. 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean  — 

Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 

While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave, 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 

Stand  fix'd  in  steadfast  gaze. 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence; 

And  will  not  take  their  flight 

For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warn'd  them  thence; 

But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow 

Until  their  Lord  Himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 

Had  given  day  her  room. 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 

And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 

As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlightened  world  no  more  should  need ; 

He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 

Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree  could  bean 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn 
Sate  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row; 
Full  little  thought  they  than 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep :  — 
117 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook  — 

Divinely-warbled  voice 

Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took: 

The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose. 

With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close, 

5fc  jjj  ^  •fi  ^  jf*  Si* 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made 

But  when  of  old  the  Sons  of  Morning  sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 

His  constellations  set 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung; 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres ! 

Once  bless  our  human  ears. 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time; 

And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow; 

And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 

Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

For  if  such  holy  song 

Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold; 

And  speckled  Vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

ii8 


Christmas  Day 

And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 

Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orb'd  in  a  rainbow;    and,  like  glories  wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen. 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering; 

And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 

Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace-hall. 

But  see !   the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest; 

Time  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending: 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 

Hath  fix'd  her  polish'd  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  hand-maid  lamp  attending: 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harnessed  Angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

John  Milton 

Christmas  Church     ^^^y     ^cr^y     ^c^     ^^     ^^r^y    '«;^ 

A^T'HEN  I  awoke  on  Christmas  morning,  while  I  lay 
*  *  musing  on  my  pillow,  I  heard  the  sound  of  little  feet 
pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whispering  consulta- 
tion. Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted  forth  an  old 
Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was, 

Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 
119 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

I  rose  softly,  slipped  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  sud- 
denly, and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy 
groups  that  a  painter  could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a 
boy  and  two  girls,  the  eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely 
as  seraphs.  They  were  going  the  rounds  of  the  house,  and 
singing  at  every  chamber-door;  but  my  sudden  appearance 
frightened  them  into  mute  bashfulness.  They  remained 
for  a  moment  playing  on  their  lips  with  their  fingers,  and 
now  and  then  stealing  a  shy  glance  from  under  their  eye- 
brows, until,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  they  scampered  away, 
and  as  they  turned  an  angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them 
laughing  in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feel- 
ings in  this  stronghold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality.  The 
window  of  my  chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer 
would  have  been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a 
sloping  lawn,  a  fine  stream  winding  at  the  foot  of  it,  and 
a  tract  of  park  beyond,  with  noble  clumps  of  trees,  and 
herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance  was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the 
smoke  from  the  cottage  chimneys  hanging  over  it;  and  a 
church  with  its  dark  spire  in  strong  relief  against  the 
clear  cold  sky.  The  house  was  surrounded  with  ever- 
greens, according  to  the  English  custom,  which  would 
have  given  almost  an  appearance  of  summer;  but  the 
morning  was  extremely  frosty;  the  light  vapour  of  the  pre- 
ceding evening  had  been  precipitated  by  the  cold,  and  cov- 
ered all  the  trees  and  every  blade  of  grass  with  its  fine 
crystallizations.  The  rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun  had 
a  dazzling  effect  among  the  glittering  foliage.  A  robin, 
perched  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain-ash  that  hung  its 
clusters  of  red  berries  just  before  my  window,  was  basking 
himself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  querulous  notes; 

I20 


THE  VIRGIN   ADORING   THE  INFANT   CHILD.     Correggio. 


Christmas  Day 

and  a  peacock  was  displaying  all  the  glories  of  his  train, 
and  strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanish 
grandee  on  the  terrace-walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  appeared 
to  invite  me  to  family  prayers.  I  afterwards  understood 
that  early  morning  service  was  read  on  every  Sunday 
and  saint's  day  throughout  the  year,  either  by  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge  or  by  some  member  of  the  family.  It  was  once 
almost  universally  the  case  at  the  seats  of  the  nobility  and 
gentry  of  England,  and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the 
custom  is  fallen  into  neglect;  for  the  dullest  observer  must 
be  sensible  of  the  order  and  serenity  prevalent  in  those 
households,  where  the  occasional  exercise  of  a  beautiful 
form  of  worship  in  the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the  key- 
note to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and  attunes  every  spirit  to 
harmony. 

**If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  "I  can  promise  you  a  specimen  of  my  cousin  Simon's 
musical  achievements.  As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an 
organ,  he  has  formed  a  band  from  the  village  amateurs, 
and  established  a  musical  club  for  their  improvement;  he 
has  also  sorted  a  choir,  as  he  sorted  my  father's  pack  of 
hounds,  according  to  the  directions  of  Jervaise  Markham, 
in  his  Country  Contentments;  for  the  bass  he  has  sought 
out  all  the  'deep  solemn  mouths,'  and  for  the  tenor  the 
Moud  ringing  mouths,'  among  the  country  bumpkins;  and 
for  'sweet  mouths,'  he  has  culled  with  curious  taste  among 
the  prettiest  lasses  in  the  neighbourhood;  though  these  last, 
he  affirms,  are  the  most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune;  your 
pretty  female  singer  being  exceedingly  wayward  and  ca- 
pricious, and  very  liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,   though  frosty,   was  remarkably  fine 

121 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

and  clear,  the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church, 
which  was  a  very  old  building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  near 
a  village,  about  half-a-mile  from  the  park  gate.  Adjoining 
it  was  a  low  snug  parsonage,  which  seemed  coeval  with 
the  church.  The  front  of  it  was  perfectly  matted  with  a 
yew-tree  that  had  been  trained  against  its  walls,  through 
the  dense  foliage  of  which  apertures  had  been  formed  to 
admit  light  into  the  small  antique  lattices.  As  we  passed 
this  sheltered  nest,  the  parson  issued  forth  and  preceded 
us. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  tolerably 
well,  the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the 
instrumental,  and  some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then 
making  up  for  lost  time  by  travelling  over  a  passage  with 
prodigious  celerity,  and  clearing  more  bars  than  the  keen- 
est fox-hunter  to  be  in  at  the  death.  But  the  great  trial 
was  an  anthem  that  had  been  prepared  and  arranged  by 
Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he  had  founded  great  expec- 
tation. Unluckily  there  was  a  blunder  at  the  very  outset; 
the  musicians  became  flurried;  Master  Simon  was  in  a 
fever,  everything  went  on  lamely  and  irregularly  until 
they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning  ''Now  let  us  sing  with 
one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal  for  parting  com- 
pany: all  became  discord  and  confusion ;  each  shifted  for 
himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as  well,  or  rather  as  soon,  as 
he  could,  excepting  one  old  chorister  in  a  pair  of  horn  spec- 
tacles bestriding  and  pinching  a  long  sonorous  nose;  who, 
happening  to  stand  a  little  apart,  and  being  wrapped  up 
in  his  own  melody,  kept  on  a  quavering  course,  wriggling 
his  head,  ogling  his  book,  and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal 
solo  of  at  least  three  bars'  duration. 

122 


Christmas  Day 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites 
and  ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of  observ- 
ing it  not  merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing; 
supporting  the  correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest 
usages  of  the  Church,  and  enforcing  them  by  the  authori- 
ties of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea,  St.  Cyprian,  St.  Chrysostom, 
St.  Augustine  and  a  cloud  more  of  Saints  and  Fathers, 
from  whom  he  made  copious  quotations.  I  was  a  little 
at  a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty  array 
of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no  one  present  seemed 
inclined  to  dispute;  but  I  soon  found  that  the  good  man 
had  a  legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with ;  having, 
in  the  course  of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of  Christmas, 
got  completely  embroiled  in  the  sectarian  controversies 
of  the  Revolution,  when  the  Puritans  made  such  a  fierce 
assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  Church,  and  poor  old 
Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the  land  by  proclamation  of 
parliament.  The  worthy  parson  lived  but  with  times  past, 
and  knew  but  a  little  of  the  present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of 
his  antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  were  to 
him  as  the  gazettes  of  the  day;  while  the  era  of  the  Revo- 
lution was  mere  modern  history.  He  forgot  that  nearly 
two  centuries  had  elapsed  since  the  fiery  persecution  of 
poor  mince-pie  throughout  the  land;  when  plum-porridge 
was  denounced  as  "mere  popery,"  and  roast  beef  as  anti- 
christian;  and  that  Christmas  has  been  brought  in  again 
triumphantly  with  the  merry  court  of  King  Charles  at  the 
Restoration.  He  kindled  into  warmth  with  the  ardour 
of  his  contest,  and  the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom 
he  had  to  combat;  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old  Prynne 
and  two  or  three  other  forgotten  champions  of  the  Round 
123 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

heads,  on  the  subject  of  Christmas  festivity;  and  concluded 
by  urging  his  hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affecting 
manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditionary  customs  of  their  fathers, 
and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this  joyful  anniversary  of 
the  Church. 

I  have  seldom  know^n  a  sermon  attended  apparently 
with  more  immediate  effects;  for  on  leaving  the  church 
the  congregation  seemed  one  and  all  possessed  v^ith  the 
gaiety  of  spirit  so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The 
elder  folks  gathered  in  knots  in  the  churchyard,  greeting 
and  shaking  hands;  and  the  children  ran  about  crying 
Ule!  Ule!  and  repeating  some  uncouth  rhymes,  which 
the  parson,  who  had  joined  us,  informed  me  had  been 
handed  down  from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed 
their  hats  to  the  Squire  as  he  passed,  giving  him  the  good 
wishes  of  the  season  with  every  appearance  of  heartfelt 
sincerity,  and  were  invited  by  him  to  the  Hall,  to  take  some- 
thing to  keep  out  the  cold  of  the  weather;  and  I  heard 
blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor,  which  convinced 
me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments,  the  worthy  old 
cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christmas  virtue  of 

charity. 

Washington  Irving 

Dolly  urges  Silas  Marner  to  go  to  Church  on 
Christmas  Day    ^=:>     -<^^     ^::>     ^:>     ^^^     ^^^ 

"  '  I  ""HERE'S  the  bakehus  if  you  could  make  up  your  mind 
-*■  to  spend  a  twopence  on  the  oven  now  and  then,  — 
not  every  week,  in  course  —  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that 
myself,  —  you  might  carry  your  bit  o'  dinner  there,  for  it's 
nothing  but  right  to  have  a  bit  o'  summat  hot  of  a  Sunday, 
124 


Christmas  Day 

and  not  to  make  it  as  you  can't  know  your  dinner  from 
Saturday.  But  now,  upo'  Christmas-day,  this  blessed 
Christmas  as  is  ever  coming,  if  you  was  to  take  your  dinner 
to  the  bakehus,  and  go  to  church,  and  see  the  holly  and  the 
yew,  and  hear  the  anthim,  and  then  take  the  sacramen', 
you'd  be  a  deal  the  better,  and  you'd  know  which  end  you 
stood  on,  and  you  could  put  your  trust  i'  Them  as  knows 
better  nor  we  do,  seein'  you'd  ha'  done  what  it  lies  on  us  all 
to  do." 

Dolly's  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long  effort 
of  speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing  persuasive 
tone  with  which  she  would  have  tried  to  prevail  on  a  sick 
man  to  take  his  medicine,  or  a  basin  of  gruel  for  which  he 
had  no  appetite. 


But  now,  little  Aaron,  having  become  used  to  the  weaver's 
awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his  mother's  side,  and 
Silas,  seeming  to  notice  him  for  the  first  time,  tried  to  return 
Dolly's  signs  of  good-will  by  offering  the  lad  a  bit  of  lard- 
cake.  Aaron  shrank  back  a  little,  and  rubbed  his  head 
against  his  mother's  shoulder,  but  still  thought  the  piece 
of  cake  worth  the  risk  of  putting  his  hand  out  for  it. 

"  Oh,  for  shame,  Aaron,"  said  his  mother,  taking  him  on 
her  lap,  however;  ''why,  you  don't  want  cake  again  yet 
awhile.  He's  wonderful  hearty,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little 
sigh  —  "that  he  is,  God  knows.  He's  my  youngest,  and  we 
spoil  him  sadly,  for  either  me  or  the  father  must  allays  hev 
him  in  our  sight  —  that  we  must." 

She  stroked  Aaron's  brown  head,  and  thought  it  must  do 
Master  Marner  good  to  see  such  a  "pictur  of  a  child.' 
But  Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  saw  the  neat 
125 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

featured  rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim  round,  with  two  dark 
spots  in  it. 

"And  he's  got  a  voice  Hke  a  bird  —  you  wouldn't  think," 
Dolly  went  on;  "he  can  sing  a  Christmas  carril  as  his 
father's  taught  him;  and  I  take  it  for  a  token  as  he'll  come 
to  good,  as  he  can  learn  the  good  tunes  so  quick.  Come, 
Aaron,  stan'  up  and  sing  the  carril  to  Master  Marner, 
come.'* 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  against  his 
mother's  shoulder.  "Oh,  that's  naughty,"  said  Dolly, 
gently.  "Stan'  up,  when  mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold 
the  cake  till  you've  done." 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents,  even  to  an 
ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances ;  and  after  a  few  more 
signs  of  coyness,  consisting  chiefly  in  rubbing  the  backs  of 
his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  then  peeping  between  them  at 
Master  Marner,  to  see  if  he  looked  anxious  for  the  "carril," 
he  at  length  allowed  his  head  to  be  duly  adjusted,  and 
standing  behind  the  table,  which  let  him  appear  above  it 
only  as  far  as  his  broad  frill,  so  that  he  looked  like  a  cherubic 
head  untroubled  with  a  body,  he  began  with  a  clear  chirp, 
and  in  a  melody  that  had  the  rhythm  of  an  industrious 

hammer,  — 

"God  rest  you  merry,  gentlemen, 
Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas-Day." 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at  Marner  in 
some  confidence  that  this  strain  would  help  to  allure  him  to 
church. 

"That's  Christmas  music,"  she  said,  when  Aaron  had 
ended,  and  had  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again.  "There's 
126 


Christmas   Day 

no  other  music  equil  to  the  Christmas  music  —  'Hark  the 
erol  angils  sing.'  And  you  may  judge  what  it  is  at  church, 
Master  Marner,  with  the  bassoon  and  the  voices,  as  you 
can't  help  thinking  you've  got  to  a  better  place  a'ready  — 
for  I  wouldn't  speak  ill  o'  this  world,  seeing  as  Them  put 
us  in  it  as  knows  best;  but  what  wi'  the  drink,  and  the 
quarrelling,  and  the  bad  illnesses,  and  the  hard  dying,  as 
I've  seen  times  and  times,  one's  thankful  to  hear  of  a  better. 
The  boy  sings  pretty,  don't  he,  Master  Marner?" 
"Yes,"  said  Silas,  absently,  ''very  pretty," 
The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammer-like  rhythm,  had 
fallen  on  his  ears  as  strange  music,  quite  unlike  a  hymn,  and 
could  have  none  of  the  effect  Dolly  contemplated.  But  he 
wanted  to  show  her  that  he  was  grateful,  and  the  only  mode 
that  occurred  to  him  was  to  offer  Aaron  a  bit  more  cake. 

George  Eliot 


Yule  in  the  Old  Town     ^;>     ^^     ^^     <::^     ^:y 

A  WHOLE  fortnight  we  kept  it.  Real  Christmas  was 
-^^*-  from  Little  Christmas  Eve,  which  was  the  night  before 
the  Holy  Eve  proper,  till  New  Year's.  Then  there  was  a  week 
of  supplementary  festivities  before  things  slipped  back  into 
their  wonted  groove.  That  was  the  time  of  parties  and 
balls.  The  great  ball  of  the  year  was  on  the  day  after 
Christmas,  —  Second  Christmas  Day  we  called  it,  —  when 
all  the  quality  attended  at  the  club-house,  where  the  amt- 
man  and  the  burgomaster,  the  bishop  and  the  rector  of  the 
Latin  School,  did  the  honors  and  received  the  people. 
That  was  the  grandest  of  the  town  functions.  The  school 
ball,  late  in  autumn,  was  the  jolliest,  for  then  the  boys 
127 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

invited  each  the  girl  he  Hked  best,  and  the  older  people  were 
guests  and  outsiders,  so  to  speak.  The  Latin  School  — 
the  Cathedral  School,  as  it  was  still  called  —  was  the  oldest 
institution  there  next  to  the  church  and  the  bishop,  and 
when  it  took  the  stage  it  was  easily  first  while  it  lasted. 
The  Yule  ball,  though  it  was  a  rather  more  formal  affair, 
for  all  that  was  neither  stiff  nor  tiresome.  Nothing  was,  in 
the  Old  Town ;  there  was  too  much  genuine  kindness  for  that. 
And  then  it  was  the  recognized  occasion  when  matches 
were  made  by  enterprising  mammas,  or  by  the  young 
themselves,  and  when  engagements  were  declared  and  dis- 
cussed as  the  great  news  of  the  day.  We  heard  all  of  those 
things  afterward  and  thought  a  great  fuss  was  being  made 
over  nothing  much.  For  when  a  young  couple  were  de- 
clared engaged,  that  meant  that  there  was  no  more  fun  to 
be  got  out  of  them.  They  were  given,  after  that,  to  moon- 
ing about  by  themselves  and  to  chasing  us  children  away 
when  we  ran  across  them;  until  they  happily  returned  to 
their  senses,  got  married,  and  became  reasonable  human 
beings  once  more. 

When  we  had  been  sent  to  bed,  father  and  mother  used 
to  go  away  in  their  Sunday  very  best,  and  we  knew  they 
would  not  return  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  fact 
which  alone  invested  the  occasion  with  unwonted  gravity, 
for  the  Old  Town  kept  early  hours.  At  ten  o'clock,  when 
the  watchman  droned  his  sleepy  lay,  absurdly  warning  the 

people  to 

"Be  quick  and  bright, 
Watch  fire  and  light, 
Our  clock  it  has  struck  ten," 

it  was  ordinarily  tucked  in  and  asleep.     But  that  night  we 

lay  awake  a  long  time  listening  to  the  muffled  sound  of 

128 


Christmas  Day 

heavy  wheels  in  the  snow,  rolling  unceasingly  past,  and 
trying  to  picture  to  ourselves  the  grandeur  they  conveyed. 
Every  carriage  in  the  town  was  then  in  use  and  doing  over- 
time.    I  think  there  were  as  many  as  four. 

When  we  were  not  dancing  or  playing  games,  we  literally 
ate  our  way  through  the  two  holiday  weeks.  Pastry  by  the 
mile  did  we  eat,  and  general  indigestion  brooded  over  the 
town  when  it  emerged  into  the  white  light  of  the  new  year. 
At  any  rate,  it  ought  to  have  done  so.  It  is  a  prime  article 
of  faith  with  the  Danes  to  this  day  that  for  any  one  to  go  out 
of  a  friend's  house,  or  of  anybody's  house,  in  the  Christmas 
season  without  partaking  of  its  cheer,  is  to  ''bear  away  their 
Yule,"  which  no  one  must  do  on  any  account.  Every 
house  was  a  bakery  from  the  middle  of  December  until 
Christmas  Eve,  and,  oh!  the  quantities  of  cakes  we  ate, 
and  such  cakes !  We  were  sixteen  normally  in  our  home, 
and  mother  mixed  the  dough  for  her  cakes  in  a  veritable 
horse  trough  kept  for  that  exclusive  purpose.  As  much  as  a 
sack  of  flour  went  in,  I  guess,  and  gallons  of  molasses,  and 
whatever  else  went  to  the  mixing.  For  weeks  there  had  been 
long  and  anxious  speculations  as  to  "what  father  would  do," 
and  gloomy  conferences  between  him  and  mother  over  the 
state  of  the  family  pocketbook,  which  was  never  plethoric; 
but  at  last  the  joyful  message  ran  through  the  house  from 
attic  to  kitchen  that  the  appropriation  had  been  made, 
"even  for  citron,"  which  meant  throwing  all  care  to  the 
winds.  The  thrill  of  it,  when  we  children  stood  by  and  saw 
the  generous  avalanche  going  into  the  trough !  What 
would  not  come  out  of  it !  The  whole  family  turned  to  and 
helped  make  the  cakes  and  cut  the  "pepper  nuts,"  which 
were  little  squares  of  cake  dough  we  played  cards  for  and 
stuffed  our  pockets  with,  gnashing  them  incessantly.  Talk 
K  129 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

about  eating  between  meals:  ours  was  a  continuous  per- 
formance for  two  solid  weeks. 

The  pepper  nuts  were  the  real  staple  of  Christmas  to  us 
children.  We  rolled  the  dough  in  long  strings  like  slender 
eels  and  then  cut  it  a  little  on  the  bias.  They  were  good, 
those  nuts,  when  baked  brown.     I  wish  I  had  some  now. 

Christmas  Eve  was,  of  course,  the  great  and  blessed 
time.  That  was  the  one  night  in  the  year  when  in  the  gray 
old  Domkirke  services  were  held  by  candle-light. 

A  myriad  wax  candles  twinkled  in  the  gloom,  but  did  not 
dispel  it.  It  lingered  under  the  great  arches  where  the 
voice  of  the  venerable  minister,  the  responses  of  the  congre- 
gation, and  above  it  all  the  boyish  treble  of  the  choir, 
billowed  and  strove,  now  dreamingly  with  the  memories  of 
ages  past,  now  sharply,  tossed  from  angle  to  corner  in  the 
stone  walls,  and  again  in  long  thunderous  echoes  sweeping 
all  before  it  on  the  triumphant  strains  of  the  organ,  like  a 
victorious  army  with  banners  crowding  through  the  halls  of 
time.  So  it  sounded  to  me  as  sleep  gently  tugged  at  my 
eyelids.  The  air  grew  heavy  with  the  smell  of  evergreens 
and  of  burning  wax,  and  as  the  thunder  of  war  drew  farther 
and  farther  away,  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  pillars  stirred 
the  phantoms  of  mailed  knights  whose  names  were  hewn 
in  the  gravestones  there.  We  youngsters  clung  to  the 
skirts  of  mother  as  we  went  out  and  the  great  doors  fell 
to  behind  us.  And  yet  those  Christmas  eves,  with  mother's 
gentle  eyes  forever  inseparable  from  them,  and  with  the 
glad  cries  of  ''Merry  Christmas!"  ringing  all  about,  have 
left  a  touch  of  sweet  peace  in  my  heart  which  all  the  years 
have  not  effaced,  nor  ever  will.  .  .  . 

When  Ansgarius  preached  the  White  Christ  to  the  vikings 
of  the  North,  so  runs  the  legend  of  the  Christmas-tree,  the 
130 


Christmas  Day- 
Lord  sent  his  three  messengers,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  to 
help  light  the  first  tree.  Seeking  one  that  should  be  high  as 
hope,  wide  as  love,  and  that  bore  the  sign  of  the  cross  on 
every  bough,  they  chose  the  balsam  fir,  which  best  of  all  the 
trees  in  the  forest  met  the  requirements.  .  .  .  Wax  candles 
are  the  only  real  thing  for  a  Christmas-tree,  candles  of  wax 
that  mingle  their  perfume  with  that  of  the  burning  fir, 
not  the  by-product  of  some  coal-oil  or  other  abomination. 
What  if  the  boughs  do  catch  fire  ?  They  can  be  watched, 
and  too  many  candles  are  tawdry,  anyhow.  Also,  red 
apples,  oranges,  and  old-fashioned  cornucopias  made  of 
colored  paper,  and  made  at  home,  look  a  hundred  times 
better  and  fitter  in  the  green;  and  so  do  drums  and  toy 
trumpets  and  wald-horns,  and  a  rocking-horse  reined  up 
in  front  that  need  not  have  cost  forty  dollars,  or  anything 
Hke  it. 

I  am  thinking  of  one,  or  rather  two,  a  little  piebald  team 
with  a  wooden  seat  between,  for  which  mother  certainly  did 
not  give  over  seventy-five  cents  at  the  store,  that  as  "Belcher 
and  Mamie"  —  the  name  was  bestowed  on  the  beasts  at 
sight  by  Kate,  aged  three,  who  bossed  the  play-room  —  gave 
a  generation  of  romping  children  more  happiness  than  all  the 
expensive  railroads  and  trolley-cars  and  steam  engines  that 
are  considered  indispensable  to  keeping  Christmas  nowa- 
days. And  the  Noah's  Ark  with  Noah  and  his  wife  and  all 
the  animals  that  went  two.  by  two  —  ah,  well,  I  haven't  set 
out  to  preach  a  sermon  on  extravagance  that  makes  no  one 
happier,  but  I  wish  —  The  legend  makes  me  think  of  the 
holly  that  grew  in  our  Danish  woods.  We  called  it  ''Christ- 
thorn,"  for  to  us  it  was  of  that  the  crown  of  thorns  was  made 
with  which  the  cruel  soldiers  mocked  our  Saviour,  and  the 
red  berries  were  the  drops  of  blood  that  fell  from  his 
131 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

anguished  brow.  Therefore  the  holly  was  a  sacred  tree, 
and  to  this  day  the  woods  in  which  I  find  it  seem  to  me  like 
the  forest  where  the  Christmas  roses  bloomed  in  the  night 
when  the  Lord  was  born,  different  from  all  other  woods, 
and  better. 

Jacob  Riis  in  The  Old  Town 

The  Mahogany  Tree    ^>    ^^    ^^    ^;^    -^::y    <:^ 

r^HRISTMAS  is  here; 
^^    Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we: 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  mahogany  tree. 

Once  on  the  bougies, 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom; 
Night-birds  are  we: 
Here  we  carouse 
Singing,  like  them. 
Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  we  sit; 
Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short  — 
When  we  are  gone, 
132 


Christmas  Day 

Let  them  sing  on, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  this; 
Faces  we  miss. 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true, 
Gentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree= 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate: 
Let  the  dog  wait: 
Happy  we'll  be ! 
Drink  every  one; 
Pile  up  the  coals. 
Fill  the  red  bowls, 
Round  the  old  tree ! 

Drain  we  the  cup.  — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up; 
Empty  it  yet; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone! 
Life  and  its  ills, 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
133 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue-devil  sprite, 
Leave  us  to-night, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


The  Holly  and  the  Ivy     ^^     <::^    -o^y     - 

HTHE  Holly  and  the  Ivy, 
-■-    Now  both  are  full  well  grown; 
Of  all  the  trees  that  spring  in  wood, 

The  Holly  bears  the  crown. 
The  Holly  bears  a  blossom. 

As  white  as  lily  flow'r; 
And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

To  be  our  sweet  Saviour, 

To  be  our  sweet  Saviour, 

The  Holly  bears  a  berry. 

As  red  as  any  blood; 
And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

To  do  poor  sinners  good. 
The  Holly  bears  a  prickle. 

As  sharp  as  any  thorn; 
And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

On  Christmas  day  in  the  morn, 

On  Christmas  day  in  the  morn. 

The  Holly  bears  a  bark. 

As  bitter  as  any  gall; 
And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

For  to  redeem  us  all. 
134 


Christmas  Day 

The  Holly  and  the  Ivy, 

Now  both  are  full  well  grown; 
Of  all  the  trees  that  spring  in  wood, 

The  Holly  bears  the  crown, 

The  Holly  hears  the  crown. 

Old  English  Song 

Ballade  of  Christmas  Ghosts     ^^     -^::>     ^:y     ^> 

"DETWEEN  the  moonlight  and  the  fire, 
■*-^  In  winter  twilights  long  ago, 
What  ghosts  we  raised  for  your  desire, 

To  make  your  merry  blood  run  slow; 
How  old,  how  grave,  how  wise  we  grow, 

No  Christmas  ghost  can  make  us  chill. 
Save  those  that  troop  in  mournful  row. 

The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will  I 

The  beasts  can  talk  in  barn  and  byre, 

On  Christmas  Eve,  old  legends  know, 
As  year  by  year  the  years  retire; 

We  men  fall  silent  then,  I  trow; 
Such  sights  hath  memory  to  show. 

Such  voices  from  the  silence  thrill, 
Such  shapes  return  with  Christmas  snow  — 

The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will. 

Oh,  children  of  the  village  choir, 
Your  carols  on  the  midnight  throw; 

Oh,  bright  across  the  mist  and  mire, 
Ye  ruddy  hearths  of  Christmas,  glow  I 

Beat  back  the  dread,  beat  down  the  woe, 
Let's  cheerily  descend  the  hill; 
135 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

Be  welcome  all,  to  come  or  go, 
The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will ! 

Envoy 

Friend,  sursum  corda,  soon  and  slow 

We  part  like  guests,  who've  joyed  their  fill; 
Forget  them  not,  nor  mourn  them  so, 
The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will. 

Andrew  Lang 
By  permission   of  Longmans,  Green,  &^    Co.,  London,  and 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 


Christmas  Treasures     ^^:y    ^^^    ^^::y    •^^    ^^^    ^^ 

T  COUNT  my  treasures  o'er  with  care,  —> 
^     The  little  toy  my  darling  knew, 

A  little  sock  of  faded  hue, 
A  little  lock  of  golden  hair. 

Long  years  ago  this  holy  time. 

My  little  one  —  my  all  to  me  — 

Sat  robed  in  white  upon  my  knee 
And  heard  the  merry  Christmas  chime. 

"Tell  me,  my  little  golden -head. 
If  Santa  Claus  should  come  to-night, 
What  shall  he  bring  my  baby  bright,  — 

What  treasure  for  my  boy?"  I  said. 

And  then  he  named  this  little  toy, 

While  in  his  round  and  mournful  eyes 
There  came  a  look  of  sweet  surprise, 

That  spake  his  quiet,  trustful  joy. 
136 


Christmas  Day 

And  as  he  lisped  his  evening  prayer 
He  asked  the  boon  with  childish  grace, 
Then,  toddling  to  the  chimney  place, 

He  hung  this  little  stocking  there. 

That  night,  while  lengthening  shadows  crept, 
I  saw  the  white-winged  angels  come 
With  singing  to  our  lowly  home 

And  kiss  my  darling  as  he  slept. 

They  must  have  heard  his  little  prayer, 
For  in  the  morn,  with  rapturous  face, 
He  toddled  to  the  chimney-place. 

And  found  this  little  treasure  there. 

They  came  again  one  Christmas-tide,  — 
That  angel  host,  so  fair  and  white ! 
And  singing  all  that  glorious  night. 

They  lured  my  darling  from  my  side. 

A  little  sock,  a  little  toy, 

A  little  lock  of  golden  hair. 

The  Christmas  music  on  the  air, 
A  watching  for  my  baby  boy! 

But  if  again  that  angel  train 

And  golden-head  come  back  for  me, 
To  bear  me  to  Eternity, 

My  watching  will  not  be  in  vain ! 

From  A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse;  copyright,  1889,  by 
Eugene  Field;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

137 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Wassailer's  Song       ^:^     o     ^;^     -^^     ^Ci^     ^^ 

"X^TASSAIL!   wassail!   all  over  the  town, 

*  ^     Our  toast  it  is  white,  and  our  ale  it  is  brown ; 
Our  bowl  is  made  of  a  maplin  tree; 
We  be  good  fellows  all ;  —  I  drink  to  thee. 

Here's  to  our  horse,  and  to  his  right  ear, 
God  send  master  a  happy  new  year; 
A  happy  new  year  as  e'er  he  did  see,  — 
With  my  wassailing  bowl  I  drink  to  thee. 

Here's  to  our  mare,  and  to  her  right  eye, 
God  send  our  mistress  a  good  Christmas  pie; 
A  good  Christmas  pie  as  e'er  I  did  see,  — 
With  my  wassailing  bowl  I  drink  to  thee. 

Here's  to  our  cow,  and  to  her  long  tail, 
God  send  our  master  us  never  may  fail 
Of  a  cup  of  good  beer :   I  pray  you  draw  near, 
And  our  jolly  wassail  it's  then  you  shall  hear. 

Be  here  any  maids?     I  suppose  here  be  some; 

Sure  they  will  not  let  young  men  stand  on  the  cold  stone ! 

Sing  hey  O,  maids !    come  trole  back  the  pin. 

And  the  fairest  maid  in  the  house  let  us  all  in. 

Come,  butler,  come,  bring  us  a  bowl  of  the  best; 
I  hope  your  sould  in  heaven  will  rest; 
But  if  you  do  bring  us  a  bowl  of  the  small. 
Then  down  fall  butler,  and  bowl  and  all. 

Robert  Southwell 

138 


VI 
CHRISTMAS   HYMNS 


TTARK !  the  herald  angels  sing, 
-*--'■"  Glory  to  the  new-born  King ! 
Peace  on  earth,  and  mercy  mild ; 
God  and  sinners  reconciled." 

Charles  Wesley 


142 


A  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  ^:y     ^;>     ^:y     ^^     ^ 

T  SING  the  birth  was  born  to-night, 
^  The  author  both  of  life  and  Hght; 

The  angels  so  did  sound  it. 
And  like  the  ravished  shepherds  said, 
Who  saw  the  light,  and  were  afraid. 

Yet  searched,  and  true  they  found  it. 

The  Son  of  God,  th'  Eternal  King, 
That  did  us  all  salvation  bring. 

And  freed  the  soul  from  danger; 
He  whom  the  whole  world  could  not  take. 
The  Word,  which  heaven  and  earth  did  make, 

Was  now  laid  in  a  manger. 

The  Father's  wisdom  willed  it  so. 
The  Son's  obedience  knew  no  No, 

Both  wills  were  in  one  stature; 
And  as  that  wisdom  had  decreed, 
The  Word  was  now  made  Flesh  indeed, 

And  took  on  Him  our  nature. 

What  comfort  by  Him  do  we  win. 
Who  made  Himself  the  price  of  sin, 

To  make  us  heirs  of  Glory! 
To  see  this  babe,  all  innocence, 
A  martyr  born  in  our  defence: 
Can  man  forget  this  story? 

Ben  Jonson 
143 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

While  Shepherds  Watched         ^^     '<^:>     ^:::^     ^^ 

'X  1  THILE  shepherds  watch' d  their  flocks  by  night, 

^  ^    All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  Angel  of  the  Lord  came  down. 
And  glory  shone  around. 

"Fear  not,"  said  he  (for  mighty  dread 

Had  seized  their  troubled  mind) ; 
"  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 

To  you  and  all  mankind. 

"  To  you  in  David's  town  this  day 

Is  born  of  David's  line 
The  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord; 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign: 

"The  heavenly  Babe  you  there  shall  find 

To  human  view  display'd. 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  swathing-bands, 

And  in  a  manger  laid." 

Thus  spake  the  seraph;   and  forthwith 

Appear'd  a  shining  throng 
Of  angels  praising  God,  and  thus 

Address'd  their  joyful  song: 

"All  glory  be  to  God  on  high. 
And  to  the  earth  be  peace; 
Good-will  henceforth  from  heaven  to  men 
Begin,  and  never  cease!" 

Nahum  Tate 
144 


Christmas  Hymns 
O,  Little  Town  of  Bethlehem   -^     -;^     ^;:>     ^:^ 

O,  LITTLE  town  of  Bethlehem, 
How  still  we  see  thee  lie ! 
Above  thy  deep  and  dreamless  sleep 

The  silent  stars  go  by; 
Yet  in  thy  dark  streets  shineth 

The  everlasting  light; 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  the  years 
Are  met  in  thee  to-night. 

For  Christ  is  born  of  Mary; 

And  gathered  all  above, 
While  mortals  sleep,  the  angels  keep 

Their  watch  of  wondering  love ! 
O,  morning  stars,  together 

Proclaim  the  holy  birth ! 
And  praises  sing  to  God  the  King, 

And  peace  to  men  on  earth. 

How  silently,  how  silently. 

The  wondrous  gift  is  given ! 
So  God  imparts  to  human  hearts 

The  blessings  of  His  heaven. 
No  ear  may  hear  His  coming. 

But  in  this  world  of  sin, 
Where  meek  souls  will  receive  Him  still, 

The  dear  Christ  enters  in. 

O,  holy  Child  of  Bethlehem! 

Descend  to  us,  we  pray! 
Cast  out  our  sin,  and  enter  in, 

Be  born  to  us  to-day. 

L  145 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

We  hear  the  Christmas  angels 

The  great,  glad  tidings  tell; 
O,  come  to  us,  abide  with  us, 

Our  Lord  Emmanuel. 

Phillips  Brooks 


The  First,  Best  Christmas  Night  ^:>     ^^^ 

T    IKE  small  curled  feathers,  white  and  soft, 
■*~^    The  Httle  clouds  went  by, 
Across  the  moon,  and  past  the  stars, 

And  down  the  western  sky: 
In  upland  pastures,  where  the  grass 

With  frosted  dew  was  white, 
Like  snowy  clouds  the  young  sheep  lay, 

That  first,  best  Christmas  night. 

The  shepherds  slept;   and,  glimmering  faint, 

With  twist  of  thin,  blue  smoke, 
Only  their  fire's  cracking  flames 

The  tender  silence  broke  — 
Save  when  a  young  lamb  raised  his  head, 

Or,  when  the  night  wind  blew, 
A  nesting  bird  would  softly  stir. 

Where  dusky  olives  grew  — 

With  finger  on  her  solemn  lip. 
Night  hushed  the  shadowy  earth. 

And  only  stars  and  angels  saw 
The  Httle  Saviour's  birth; 

Then  came  such  flash  of  silver  light 
Across  the  bending  skies, 
146 


L 


Christmas   Hymns 

The  wondering  shepherds  woke,  and  hid 
Their  frightened,  dazzled  eyes ! 

And  all  their  gentle  sleepy  flock 

Looked  up,  then  slept  again. 
Nor  knew  the  light  that  dimmed  the  stars 

Brought  endless  peace  to  men  — 
Nor  even  heard  the  gracious  words 

That  down  the  ages  ring  — 
"The  Christ  is  born !   the  Lord  has  come, 

Good-will  on  earth  to  bring!" 

Then  o'er  the  moonlit,  misty  fields, 

Dumb  with  the  world's  great  joy, 
The  shepherds  sought  the  white -walled  town, 

Where  lay  the  baby  boy  — 
And  oh,  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

The  glory  of  the  skies. 
Because  the  longed-for  Christ  looked  up 

In  Mary's  happy  eyes ! 

Margaret  D  eland  in  The  Old  Garden  and  Other  Verses 
By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


It  Came  upon  the  Midnight  Clear  -^^     ^^     ^^r^y 

TT  came  upon  the  midnight  clear, 
■^     That  glorious  song  of  old. 
From  angels  bending  near  the  earth 

To  touch  their  harps  of  gold : 
Peace  to  the  earth,  good-will  to  men, 
From  heaven's  all  gracious  King. 
147 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

The  world  in  solemn  stillness  lay- 
To  hear  the  angels  sing. 

Still  through  the  cloven  skies  they  come, 

With  peaceful  wings  unfurled; 
And  still  their  heavenly  music  floats 

O'er  all  the  weary  world: 
Above  its  sad  and  lowly  plains 

They  bend  on  hovering  wing, 
And  ever  o'er  its  Babel-sounds 

The  blessed  angels  sing. 

Yet  with  the  woes  of  sin  and  strife 

The  world  has  suffered  long. 
Beneath  the  angel-strain  have  rolled 

Two  thousand  years  of  wrong; 
And  man  at  war  with  man  hears  not 

The  love-song  that  they  bring; 
Oh,  hush  the  noise,  ye  men  of  strife, 

And  hear  the  angels  sing. 

O  ye  beneath  life's  crushing  load, 

Whose  forms  are  bending  low, 
Who  toil  along  the  climbing  way, 

With  painful  steps  and  slow. 
Look  now !    for  glad  and  golden  hours 

Come  swiftly  on  the  wing: 
Oh,  rest  beside  the  weary  road, 

And  hear  the  angels  sing. 

For  lo !   the  days  are  hastening  on, 
By  prophet  bards  foretold, 
148 


Christmas  Hymns 

When  with  the  ever-circling  years 

Comes  round  the  age  of  gold ; 
When  peace  shall  over  all  the  earth 

Its  ancient  splendours  fling, 
And  the  whole  world  send  back  the  song 

Which  now  the  angels  sing. 

Edmund  Hamilton  Sears 


A  Christmas  Hymn      ^^^      -<c^      ^:>      ^^y      ^^ 

OING,  Christmas  bells! 

^   Say  to  the  earth  this  is  the  morn 

Whereon  our  Saviour-King  is  born ; 

Sing  to  all  men,  —  the  bond,  the  free, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  high,  the  low, 

The  little  child  that  sports  in  glee, 
The  aged  folk  that  tottering  go,  — 

Proclaim  the  morn 

That  Christ  is  born. 
That  saveth  them  and  saveth  me! 

Sing,  angel  host ! 
Sing  of  the  star  that  God  has  placed 
Above  the  manger  in  the  east; 

Sing  of  the  glories  of  the  night. 
The  Virgin's  sweet  humility, 

The  Babe  with  kingly  robes  bedight,  — 
Sing  to  all  men  where'er  they  be 

This  Christmas  morn; 

For  Christ  is  born. 
That  saveth  them  and  saveth  me. 
149 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Sing,  sons  of  earth ! 
O  ransomed  seed  of  Adam,  sing ! 
God  liveth,  and  we  have  a  king ! 

The  curse  is  gone,  the  bond  are  free,  — 
By  Bethlehem's  star  that  brightly  beamed, 

By  all  the  heavenly  signs  that  be, 
We  know  that  Israel  is  redeemed; 

That  on  this  morn 

The  Christ  is  born 
That  saveth  you  and  saveth  me ! 

Sing,  O  my  heart ! 
Sing  thou  in  rapture  this  dear  morn 
Whereon  the  blessed  Prince  is  born ! 

And  as  thy  songs  shall  be  of  love, 
So  let  my  deeds  be  charity,  — 

By  the  dear  Lord  that  reigns  above, 
By  Him  that  died  upon  the  tree, 

By  this  fair  morn 

Whereon  is  born 
The  Christ  that  saveth  all  and  me ! 

From  A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse;  copyright,  1889,  by 
Eugene  Field ;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


The  Song  of  the  Shepherds     <>y      <:^     ^>y     ^^ 

TT  was  near  the  first  cock-crowing, 
■^   And  Orion's  wheel  was  going, 
When  an  angel  stood  before  us  and  our  hearts  were  sore 
afraid. 
Lo !   his  face  was  like  the  lightning, 
150 


Christmas   Hymns 

When  the  walls  of  heaven  are  whitening, 
And  he  brought  us  wondrous  tidings  of  a  joy  that  should 
not  fade. 

Then  a  Splendor  shone  around  us, 

In  a  still  field  where  he  found  us, 
A-watch  upon  the  Shepherd  Tower  and  waiting  for  the 
light; 

There  where  David,  as  a  stripling, 

Saw  the  ewes  and  lambs  go  rippling 
Down  the  little  hills  and  hollows  at  the  falling  of  the  night. 

Oh,  what  tender,  sudden  faces 
Filled  the  old  familiar  places. 
The  barley -fields,  where  Ruth  of  old  went  gleaning  with  the 
birds. 
Down  the  skies  the  host  came  swirling, 
,  Like  sea-waters  white  and  whirling. 
And  our  hearts  were  strangely  shaken  by  the  wonder  of 
their  words. 

Haste,  O  people :   all  are  bidden  — 
Haste  from  places  high  or  hidden : 
In  Mary's  Child  the  Kingdom  comes,  the  heaven  in  beauty 
bends ! 
He  has  made  all  life  completer, 
He  has  made  the  Plain  Way  sweeter. 
For  the  stall  is  His  first  shelter,  and  the  cattle  His  first 
friends. 

He  has  come!   the  skies  are  telling: 
He  has  quit  the  glorious  dwelling; 
And  first  the  tidings  came  to  us,  the  humble  shepherd  folk. 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

He  has  come  to  field  and  manger, 
And  no  more  is  God  a  Stranger: 
He  comes  as  Common  Man  at  home  with  cart  and  crooked 
yoke. 

As  the  shadow  of  a  cedar 
To  a  traveler  in  gray  Kedar 
Will  be  the  kingdom  of  His  love,  the  kingdom  without  end. 
Tongue  and  ages  may  disclaim  Him, 
Yet  the  Heaven  of  heavens  will  name  Him 
Lord  of  prophets.  Light  of  nations,  elder  Brother,  tender 
Friend. 

Edwin  Markham  in  Lincoln  and  Other  Poems 
By  permission 


A  Christmas  Hymn  ^^^     ^^     ^c^     <::^     ^^     <::y 

'  I  ^ELL  me  what  is  this  innumerable  throng 
-*-    Singing  in  the  heavens  a  loud  angelic  song? 
These  are  they  who  come  with  swift  and  shining  feet 
From  round  about  the  throne  of  God  the  Lord  of  Light  to 
greet. 

O,  who  are  these  that  hasten  beneath  the  starry  sky, 
As  if  with  joyful  tidings  that  through  the  world  shall  fly? 
The  faithful  shepherds  these,  who  greatly  were  af eared 
When,  as  they  watched  their  flocks  by  night,  the  heavenly 
host  appeared. 

Who  are  these  that  follow  across  the  hills  of  night 
A  star  that  westward  hurries  along  the  fields  of  light? 
152 


THE   MADONNA.     Murillo. 


Christmas  Hymns 

Three  wise  men  from  the  east  who  myrrh  and  treasure  bring 
To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  him,  their  Lord  and  Christ  and 
King. 

What  babe  new-born  is  this  that  in  a  manger  cries? 

Near  on  her  bed  of  pain  his  happy  mother  lies. 

O,  see  !  the  air  is  shaken  with  white  and  heavenly  wings  — 
This  is  the  Lord  of  all  the  earth,  this  is  the  King  of  kings. 

Tell  me,  how  may  I  join  in  this  holy  feast 

With  all  the  kneeling  world,  and  I  of  all  the  least? 

Fear  not,  O  faithful  heart,  but  bring  what  most  is  meet; 

Bring  love  alone,  true  love  alone,  and  lay  it  at  his  feet. 
Richard  Watson  Gilder 

By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


A  Christmas  Hymn  for  Children       ^^     ^:^     <::y 

/^UR  bells  ring  to  all  the  earth, 
^-^  In  excelsis  gloria! 

But  none  for  Thee  made  chimes  of  mirth 
On  that  great  morning  of  Thy  birth. 

Our  coats  they  lack  not  silk  nor  fur, 

In  excelsis  gloria! 
Not  such  Thy  Blessed  Mother's  were; 
Full  simple  garments  covered  Her. 

Our  churches  rise  up  goodly  high, 

In  excelsis  gloria! 
Low  in  a  stall  Thyself  did  lie. 
With  horned  oxen  standing  by. 
153 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Incense  we  breathe  and  scent  of  wine, 

In  excelsis  gloria/ 
Around  Thee  rose  the  breath  of  kine, 
Thy  only  drink  Her  breast  Divine. 

We  take  us  to  a  happy  tree, 

In  excelsis  gloria/ 
The  seed  was  sown  that  day  for  Thee 
That  blossomed  out  of  Calvary. 

Teach  us  to  feed  Thy  poor  with  meat, 

In  excelsis  gloria/ 
Who  turnest  not  when  we  entreat,    . 
Who  givest  us  Thy  Bread  to  eat. 

Amen. 

From  the  volume  of  Poems  by  Josephine  Daskam  Bacon 

B}'  permission  of  Charles  Scribner^s  Sons 


Slumber-Songs  of  the  Madonna       ^^^     -c^     ^;::> 

Prelude 

TAANTE  saw  the  great  white  Rose 
-*-^     Half  unclose; 
Dante  saw  the  golden  bees 

Gathering  from  its  heart  of  gold 

Sweets  untold, 
Love's  most  honeyed  harmonies. 


Dante  saw  the  threefold  bow 

Strangely  glow, 
Saw  the  Rainbow  Vision  rise, 
154 


Christmas  Hymns 

And  the  Flame  that  wore  the  crown 
Bending  down 
O'er  the  flowers  of  Paradise. 

Something  yet  remained,  it  seems; 

In  his  dreams 
Dante  missed  —  as  angels  may 

In  their  white  and  burning  bliss  — 

Some  small  kiss 
Mortals  meet  with  every  day. 

Italy  in  splendour  faints 

'Neath  her  saints! 
O,  her  great  Madonnas,  too, 

Faces  calm  as  any  moon 

Glows  in  June, 
Hooded  with  the  night's  deep  blue ! 

What  remains?     I  pass  and  hear 

Everywhere, 
Ay,  or  see  in  silent  eyes 

Just  the  song  she  still  would  sing. 

Thus  —  a-swing 
O'er  the  cradle  where  He  Hes. 


Sleep,  little  baby,  I  love  thee; 

Sleep,  little  king,  I  am  bending  above  thee  I 

How  should  I  know  what  to  sing 
Here  in  my  arms  as  I  swing  thee  to  sleep? 
Hushaby  low, 
Rockaby  so, 
155 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Kings  may  have  wonderful  jewels  to  bring, 
Mother  has  only  a  kiss  for  her  king ! 
Why  should  my  singing  so  make  me  to  weep  ? 
Only  I  know  that  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee, 
Love  thee,  my  little  one,  sleep. 


II 


Is  it  a  dream?     Ah,  yet  it  seems 
Not  the  same  as  other  dreams! 

I  can  but  think  that  angels  sang. 
When  thou  wast  born,  in  the  starry  sky, 

And  that  their  golden  harps  out-rang 
While  the  silver  clouds  went  by ! 

The  morning  sun  shuts  out  the  stars. 

Which  are  much  loftier  than  the  sun; 
But,  could  we  burst  our  prison -bars 

And  find  the  Light  whence  light  begun, 
The  dreams  that  heralded  thy  birth 
Were  truer  than  the  truths  of  earth; 
And,  by  that  far  immortal  Gleam, 
Soul  of  my  soul,  I  still  would  dream ! 

A  ring  of  light  was  round  thy  head, 
The  great-eyed  oxen  nigh  thy  bed 
Their  cold  and  innocent  noses  bowed. 
Their  sweet  breath  rose  like  an  incense  cloud 
In  the  blurred  and  mystic  lanthorn  light! 

About  the  middle  of  the  night 

The  black  door  blazed  like  some  great  star 

With  a  glory  from  afar, 

156 


Christmas   Hymns 

Or  like  some  mighty  chrysolite 
Wherein  an  angel  stood  with  white 
Blinding  arrowy  bladed  wings 
Before  the  throne  of  the  King  of  kings; 
And,  through  it,  I  could  dimly  see 
A  great  steed  tethered  to  a  tree. 

Then,  with  crimson  gems  aflame 
Through  the  door  the  three  kings  came, 

And  the  black  Ethiop  unrolled 
The  richly  broidered  cloth  of  gold. 
And  poured  forth  before  thee  there 
Gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh! 

Ill 

See,  what  a  wonderful  smile !     Does  it  mean 

That  my  little  one  knows  of  my  love? 
Was  it  meant  for  an  angel  that  passed  unseen, 

And  smiled  at  us  both  from  above? 
Does  it  mean  that  he  knows  of  the  birds  and  the  flowers 
That  are  waiting  to  sweeten  his  childhood's  hours, 
And  the  tales  I  shall  tell  and  the  games  he  will  play, 
And  the  songs  we  shall  sing  and  the  prayers  we  shall  pray 
In  his  boyhood's  May, 
He  and  I,  one  day? 

IV 

All  in  the  warm  blue  summer  weather 
We  shall  laugh  and  love  together: 
I  shall  watch  my  baby  growing, 
I  shall  guide  his  feet, 

157 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

When  the  orange  trees  are  blowing, 
And  the  winds  are  heavy  and  sweet! 

When  the  orange  orchards  whiten 
I  shall  see  his  great  eyes  brighten 
To  watch  the  long-legged  camels  going 

Up  the  twisted  street, 
When  the  orange  trees  are  blowing, 

And  the  winds  are  sweet. 

What  does  it  mean?    Indeed,  it  seems 
A  dream!     Yet  not  like  other  dreams  I 

We  shall  walk  in  pleasant  vales. 
Listening  to  the  shepherd's  song, 

I  shall  tell  him  lovely  tales 
All  day  long: 

He  shall  laugh  while  mother  sings 

Tales  of  fishermen  and  kings. 

He  shall  see  them  come  and  go 

O'er  the  wistful  sea, 
Where  rosy  oleanders  blow 

Round  blue  Lake  Galilee, 
Kings  with  fishers'  ragged  coats 
And  silver  nets  across  their  boats 
Dipping  through  the  starry  glow, 
With  crowns  for  him  and  me! 

Ah,  no; 
Crowns  for  him,  not  me ! 

Rockaby  so!    Indeed,  it  seems 

A  dream!     Yet  not  like  other  dreams/ 

158 


Christmas   Hymns 


Ah,  see  what  a  wonderful  smile  again ! 

Shall  I  hide  it  away  in  my  heart, 
To  remember  one  day  in  a  world  of  pain 
When  the  years  have  torn  us  apart, 
Little  babe, 
When  the  years  have  torn  us  apart? 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep. 

Child  with  the  wonderful  eyes, 

Wild  miraculous  eyes. 
Deep  as  the  skies  are  deep ! 
What  star-bright  glory  of  tears 
Waits  in  you  now  for  the  years  - 
That  shall  bid  you  waken  and  weep? 
Ah,  in  that  day,  could  I  kiss  you  to  sleep 
Then,  little  lips,  little  eyes. 
Little  lips  that  are  lovely  and  wise. 
Little  lips  that  are  dreadful  and  wise! 

VI 

Clenched  little  hands  like  crumpled  roses, 

Dimpled  and  dear. 
Feet  like  flowers  that  the  dawn  uncloses, 

What  do  I  fear? 
Little  hands,  will  you  ever  be  clenched  in  anguish? 
White  little  limbs,  will  you  droop  and  languish? 

Nay,  what  do  I  hear? 
I  hear  a  shouting,  far  away. 
You  shall  ride  on  a  kingly  palm-strewn  way 
Some  day! 

159 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

But  when  you  are  crowned  with  a  golden  crown 

And  throned  on  a  golden  throne, 
You'll  forget  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  town 

And  your  mother  that  sits  alone 
Wondering  whether  the  mighty  king 
Remembers  a  song  she  used  to  sing, 
Long  ago,— 
"Rockaby  sOj 
Kings  may  have  wonderful  jewels  to  brings 
Mother  has  only  a  kiss  for  her  king/"  .  .  . 

Ah,  see  what  a  wonderful  smile,  once  more! 

He  opens  his  great  dark  eyes ! 
Little  child,  little  king,  nay,  hush,  it  is  o'er, 

My  fear  of  those  deep  twin  skies,  — 
Little  child. 
You  are  all  too  dreadful  and  wise! 


VII 

But  now  you  are  mine,  all  mine. 
And  your  feet  can  lie  in  my  hand  so  small, 

And  your  tiny  hands  in  my  heart  can  twine. 
And  you  cannot  walk,  so  you  never  shall  fall. 

Or  be  pierced  by  the  thorns  beside  the  door. 

Or  the  nails  that  lie  upon  Joseph's  floor; 

Through  sun  and  rain,  through  shadow  and  shine, 
You  are  mine,  all  mine ! 

Alfred  Noyes  in  The  Golden  Hynde 

Copyrighted  by  Messrs    Blackwood  in  Forty  Singing 
Seamen 

1 60 


VII 
CHRISTMAS    REVELS 


"h/TAKE  me  merry  hoik  more  and  less, 
For  now  is  the  time  of  Christy  mas/ 

Let  no  man  come  into  this  hall, 
Groom,  page,  not  yet  marshall, 
But  that  some  sport  he  bring  withal ! 
For  now  is  the  time  of  Christmas! 

If  that  he  say,  he  cannot  sing, 
Some  other  sport  then  let  him  bring! 
That  it  may  please  at  this  feasting ! 
For  now  is  the  time  of  Christmas  I 

If  he  say  he  can  naught  do, 
Then  for  my  love  ask  him  no  mo ! 
But  to  the  stocks  then  let  him  go ! 
For  now  is  the  time  of  Christmas! 

From  a  Balliol  MS.  of  about  1340 


164 


The  Feast  of  Saint  Stephen  in  Venice     ^^     •^::y 

'T^HE  Doge's  banquets  especially  took  the  importance 
-*-  of  public  spectacles,  and  were  always  five  in  number, 
given  at  the  feasts  of  Saint  Mark,  the  Ascension,  Saint 
Vitus,  Saint  Jerome,  and  Saint  Stephen,  after  the  last  of 
which  the  distribution  of  the  'oselle'  took  place,  represent- 
ing the  ducks  of  earlier  days,  as  the  reader  will  remember. 
At  these  great  dinners  there  were  generally  a  hundred  guests ; 
the  Doge's  counsellors,  the  Heads  of  the  Ten,  the  Avo- 
gadors  and  the  heads  of  all  the  other  magistracies  had  a 
right  to  be  invited,  but  the  rest  of  the  guests  were  chosen 
among  the  functionaries  at  the  Doge's  pleasure. 

In  the  banquet-hall  there  were  a  number  of  side-boards 
on  which  was  exhibited  the  silver,  part  of  which  belonged 
to  the  Doge  and  part  to  the  State,  and  this  was  shown 
twenty -four  hours  before  the  feast.  It  was  under  the  keep- 
ing of  a  special  official.  The  glass  service  used  on  the 
table  for  flowers  and  for  dessert  was  of  the  finest  made  in 
Murano.  Each  service,  though  this  is  hard  to  believe,  is 
said  to  have  been  used  in  public  only  once,  and  was  de- 
signed to  recall  some  important  event  of  contemporary 
history  by  trophies,  victories,  emblems,  and  allegories. 
I  find  this  stated  by  Giustina  Renier  Michiel,  who  was  a 
contemporary,  was  noble,  and  must  have  often  seen  these 
banquets. 

The  public  was  admitted  to  view  the  magnificent  spec- 
tacle during  the  whole  of  the  first  course,  and  the  ladies  of 
the  aristocracy  went  in  great  numbers.     It  was  their  cus- 

165 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

torn  to  walk  round  the  tables,  talking  with  those  of  their 
friends  who  sat  among  the  guests,  and  accepting  the  fruits 
and  sweetmeats  which  the  Doge  and  the  rest  offered  them, 
rising  from  their  seats  to  do  so.  The  Doge  himself  rose 
from  his  throne  to  salute  those  noble  ladies  whom  he 
wished  to  distinguish  especially.  Sovereigns  passing 
through  Venice  at  such  times  did  not  disdain  to  appear 
as  mere  spectators  at  the  banquets,  which  had  acquired 
the  importance  of  national  anniversaries. 

Between  the  first  and  second  courses,  a  majestic  cham- 
berlain shook  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  while  he  walked  round 
the  hall,  and  at  this  hint  all  visitors  disappeared.  The 
feast  sometimes  lasted  several  hours,  after  which  the  Doge's 
squires  presented  each  of  the  guests  with  a  great  basket 
filled  with  sweetmeats,  fruits,  comfits,  and  the  like,  and 
adorned  with  the  ducal  arms.  Every  one  rose  to  thank 
the  Doge  for  these  presents,  and  he  took  advantage  of  the 
general  move  to  go  back  to  his  private  apartments.  The 
guests  accompanied  him  to  the  threshold,  where  his  Se- 
renity bowed  to  them  without  speaking,  and  every  one 
returned  his  salute  in  silence.  He  disappeared  within, 
and  all  went  home. 

During  this  ceremony  of  leave-taking,  the  gondoliers  of 
the  guests  entered  the  hall  of  the  banquet  and  each  carried 
the  basket  received  by  his  master  to  some  lady  indicated 
by  the  latter.  "One  may  imagine,"  cries  the  good  Dame 
Michiel,  "what  curiosity  there  was  about  the  destination 
of  the  baskets,  but  the  faithful  gondoliers  regarded  mystery 
as  a  point  of  honour,  though  the  basket  was  of  such  dimen- 
sions that  it  was  impossible  to  take  it  anywhere  unobserved ; 
happy  were  they  who  received  these  evidences  of  a  regard 
which  at  once  touched  their  feeings  and  flattered  their 
i66 


Christmas  Revels 

legitimate  pride!     The  greatest  misfortune  was  to  have 
to  share  the  prize  with  another.'* 

F.  Marion  Crawford  in  Salve  Venetial 


The  Feast  of  Fools   <:>     ^c^    ^>    ^^    ^:>      ^:^ 

"DELETUS,  who  Hved  in  1182,  mentions  the  Feast  of 
-'-^  Fools,  as  celebrated  in  some  places  on  New  Year's 
day,  in  others  on  Twelfth  Night  and  in  still  others  the  week 
following.  It  seems  at  any  rate  to  have  been  one  of  the 
recognized  revels  of  the  Christmas  season.  In  France, 
at  different  cathedral  churches  there  was  a  Bishop  or  an 
Archbishop  of  Fools  elected,  and  in  the  churches  immedi- 
ately dependent  upon  the  papal  see  a  Pope  of  Fools. 

These  mock  pontiffs  had  usually  a  proper  suite  of  ec- 
clesiastics, and  one  of  their  ridiculous  ceremonies  was  to 
shave  the  Precentor  of  Fools  upon  a  stage  erected  before 
the  church  in  the  presence  of  the  jeering  ''vulgar  populace." 

They  were  mostly  attired  in  the  ridiculous  dresses  of 
pantomime  players  and  buffoons,  and  so  habited  entered 
the  church,  and  performed  the  ceremony  accompanied  by 
crowds  of  followers  representing  monsters  or  so  disguised 
as  to  excite  fear  or  laughter.  During  this  mockery  of  a 
divine  service  they  sang  indecent  songs  in  the  choir,  ate 
rich  puddings  on  the  corner  of  the  altar,  played  at  dice 
upon  it  during  the  celebration  of  a  mass,  incensed  it  with 
smoke  from  old  burnt  shoes,  and  ran  leaping  all  over  the 
church.  The  Bishop  or  Pope  of  Fools  performed  the  ser- 
vice and  gave  benediction,  dressed  in  pontificial  robes. 
When  it  was  concluded  he  was  seated  in  an  open  carriage 
and  drawn  about  the  town  followed  by  his  train,  who  in 
167 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

place  of  carnival  confetti  threw  filth  from  a  cart  upon  the 
people  who  crowded  to  see  the  procession. 

These  "December  liberties,"  as  they  were  called,  were 
always  held  at  Christmas  time  or  near  it,  but  were  not  con- 
fined to  one  particular  day,  and  seem  to  have  lasted  through 
the  chief  part  of  January.  When  the  ceremony  took  place 
upon  St.  Stephen's  Day,  they  said  as  part  of  the  mass  a 
burlesque  composition,  called  the  Fool's  Prose,  and  upon 
the  festival  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  they  had  another 
arrangement  of  ludicrous  songs,  called  the  Prose  of  the  Ox. 
William  Hone  in  Ancient  Mysteries 


The  Feast  of  the  Ass     ^:y     -^     ^^^      ^:y     ^:> 

A  S  this  was  anciently  celebrated  in  France,  it  almost 
"^  ^  entirely  consisted  of  dramatic  show.  It  was  insti- 
tuted in  honor  of  Balaam's  ass,  and  at  one  of  them  the 
clergy  walked  on  Christmas  Day  in  procession,  habited  to 
represent  the  prophets  and  others. 

Moses  appeared  in  an  alb  and  cope  with  a  long  beard 
and  a  rod.  David  had  a  green  vestment.  Balaam,  with 
an  immense  pair  of  spurs,  rode  on  a  wooden  ass  which 
enclosed  a  speaker.  There  were  also  six  Jews  and  six 
Gentiles.  Among  other  characters,  the  poet  Virgil  was 
introduced  singing  monkish  rhymes,  as  a  Gentile  prophet, 
and  a  translator  of  the  sibylline  oracles.  They  thus  moved 
in  a  procession  through  the  body  of  the  church  chanting 
versicles,  and  conversing  in  character  on  the  nativity  and 
kingdom  of  Christ  till  they  came  into  the  choir. 

This  service,  as  performed  in  the  cathedral  at  Rouen, 
commenced  with  a  procession  in  which  the  clergy  repre- 
i68 


Christmas  Revels 

sented  the  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament  who  foretold  the 
birth  of  Christ;  then  followed  Balaam  mounted  on  his 
ass,  Zacharias,  Elizabeth,  John  the  Baptist,  the  sibyl, 
Erythree,  Simeon,  Virgil,  Nebuchadnezzar,  and  the  three 
children  in  the  furnace.  After  the  procession  entered  the 
cathedral,  several  groups  of  persons  performed  the  parts 
of  Jews  and  Gentiles,  to  whom  the  choristers  addressed 
speeches;  afterwards  they  called  on  the  prophets  one  by 
one,  who  came  forward  successively  and  delivered  a  pas- 
sage relative  to  the  Messiah.  The  other  characters  ad- 
vanced to  occupy  their  proper  situations,  and  reply  in 
certain  verses  to  the  questions  of  the  choristers.  They 
performed  the  miracle  of  the  furnace;  Nebuchadnezzar 
spoke,  the  sibyl  appeared  at  the  last,  and  then  an  anthem 
was  sung,  which  concluded  the  ceremony. 

The  Missal  of  an  Archbishop  of  Sens  indicates  that 
during  such  a  service,  the  animal  itself,  clad  with  precious 
priestly  ornaments,  was  solemnly  conducted  to  the  middle 
of  the  choir,  during  which  procession  a  hymn  in  praise  of 
the  ass  was  sung  —  ending  with  — 

Amen  !  bray,  most  honour' d  Ass, 
Sated  now  with  grain  and  grass: 
Amen  repeat,  Amen  reply, 
And  disregard  antiquity. 

Hez  va!  hez  val  hez  vaJ  hez! 

The  service  lasted  the  whole  of  a  night  and  part  of  the 
next  day,  and  formed  altogether  the  strangest,  most  ridicu- 
lous medley  of  whatever  was  usually  sung  at  church  fes- 
tivals. When  the  choristers  were  thirsty  wine  was  dis- 
tributed; in  the  evening,  on  a  platform  before  the  church, 
lit  by  an  enormous  lantern,  the  grand  chanter  of  Sens  led 
169 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

a  jolly  band  in  performing  broadly  indecorous  interludes 
At  respective  divisions  of  the  service  the  ass  was  supplied 
with  drink  and  provender.  In  the  middle  of  it,  at  the  signal 
of  a  certain  anthem,  the  ass  being  conducted  into  the  nave 
of  the  church,  the  people  mixed  with  the  clergy  danced 
around  him,  imitating  his  braying. 

William  Hone  in  Ancient  Mysteries 


The  Revel  of  Sir  Hugonin  de  Guisay      ^^      ^^^ 

A /TEMORABLE  as  an  illustration  of  the  manners  of 
-'-'-'■  the  French  Court  was  a  catastrophe  that  occurred  in 
Paris  in  1393.  Riot  and  disorder  had  run  wild  all  through 
the  Christmas  festivities.  But  the  Court  was  not  yet 
satisfied.  Then  Sir  Hugonin  de  Guisay,  most  reckless 
among  all  the  reckless  spirits  of  the  period,  suggested  that 
as  an  excuse  for  prolonging  the  merriment  a  marriage 
should  be  arranged  between  two  of  the  court  attendants. 
This  was  eagerly  agreed  upon.  Sir  Hugonin  assumed  the 
leadership,  for  which  he  was  well  fitted.  He  was  loved 
and  admired  by  the  disorderly  as  much  as  he  was  hated 
and  feared  by  the  orderly.  Among  other  pleasant  traits, 
he  was  fond  of  exercising  his  wit  upon  tradesmen  and 
mechanics,  whom  he  would  accost  in  the  street,  prick  with 
his  spurs,  and  compel  to  creep  on  all  fours  and  bark  like 
curs  before  he  released  them.  Such  traits  endeared  him 
to  the  courtiers  of  the  young  Most  Gracious  Majesty  and 
Christian  King  of  France.  The  marriage  passed  off  in  a 
blaze  of  glory  and  accompaniments  of  Gargantuan  pleas- 
antry. At  the  height  of  the  ceremonies  Sir  Hugonin 
quietly  withdrew  with  the  king  and  four  other  wild  ones, 
170 


Christmas  Revels 

scions  of  the  noblest  houses  in  France.  With  a  pot  of  tar 
and  a  quantity  of  tow  the  six  conspirators  were  speedily 
changed  into  a  very  fair  imitation  of  the  dancing  bears 
then  very  common  in  mountebanks'  booths.  A  mask 
completed  the  transformation.  Five  were  then  bound 
together  with  a  silken  rope.  The  sixth,  the  king  himself, 
led  them  into  the  hall. 

Their  appearance  created  a  general  stir.  "Who  are 
they?"  was  the  cry.  Nobody  knew.  At  this  moment 
entered  the  wildest  of  all  the  wild  Dukes  of  Orleans. 
''Who  are  they?"  he  echoed  between  hiccoughs.  "Well, 
we'll  soon  find  out."  Seizing  a  brand  from  one  of  the 
torch  bearers  ranged  around  the  wall,  he  staggered  for- 
ward. Some  gentlemen  essayed  to  stay  him.  But  he  was 
obstinate  and  quarrelesome.  Main  force  could  not  be 
thought  of  against  a  prince  of  the  blood.  He  was  given 
his  way.  He  thrust  his  torch  under  the  chin  of  the  near- 
est of  the  maskers.  The  tow  caught  fire.  In  a  moment 
the  whole  group  was  in  flames.  The  young  Duchess  of 
Berri  seized  the  king  and  enveloped  him  in  her  ample 
quilted  robe.  Thus  he  was  saved.  Another  masker,  the 
Lord  of  Nanthouillet,  noted  for  strength  and  agility,  rent 
the  silken  rope  with  a  wrench  of  his  strong  teeth,  pitched 
himself  like  a  flaming  comet  through  the  first  window,  and 
dived  into  a  cistern  in  the  court,  whence  he  emerged  black 
and  smoking,  but  almost  unhurt.  As  for  the  other  four, 
they  whirled  hither  and  thither  through  the  horrified  mob, 
struggling  with  one  another,  fighting  with  the  flames, 
cursing,  shrieking  with  pain.  Women  fainted  by  scores. 
Men  who  had  never  faltered  in  a  hundred  fights  sickened 
at  the  hideous  spectacle.  All  Paris  was  roused  by  the 
uproar,  and  gathered,  an  excited  mob,  about  the  palace. 
171 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

At  last  the  flames  burnt  out.  The  four  maskers  lay  in  a 
black  and  writhing  heap  upon  the  floor.  One  was  a  mere 
cinder.  A  second  survived  until  daybreak.  A  third  died 
at  noon  the  next  day.  The  fourth  —  none  other  than  Sir 
Hugonin  himself  —  survived  for  three  days,  while  all  Paris 
rejoiced  over  his  agonies.  "Bark,  dog,  bark,"  was  the 
cry  with  which  the  citizens  saluted  his  charred  and  mangled 
corpse,  when  it  was  at  last  borne  to  the  grave. 

W.  S.  Walsh  in  Curiosities  of  Popular  Customs 

Revels  of  the  Inner  Temple  —  Inns  of  Court  ^:^ 

ON  St.  Stephen's  Day,  after  the  first  course  was  served 
in,  the  constable  marshal  was  wont  to  enter  the  hall 
(and  we  think  he  had  much  better  have  come  in,  and  said 
all  he  had  to  say  beforehand)  bravely  arrayed  with  "a 
fair  rich  compleat  barneys,  white  and  bright  and  gilt,  with 
a  nest  of  fethers,  of  all  colours,  upon  his  crest  or  helm,  and 
a  gilt  pole  ax  in  his  hand,"  and,  no  doubt,  thinking  himself 
a  prodigiously  fine  fellow.  He  was  accompanied  by  the 
lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  "armed  with  a  fair  white  armour," 
also  wearing  "fethers,"  and  "with  a  pole  ax  in  his  hand," 
and  of  course  also  thinking  himself  a  very  fine  fellow. 
With  them  came  sixteen  trumpeters,  preceded  by  four 
drums  and  fifes,  and  attended  by  four  men  clad  in  white 
"barneys,"  from  the  middle  upwards,  having  halberds  in 
their  hands,  and  bearing  on  their  shoulders  a  model  of  the 
Tower,  and  each  and  every  one  of  these  latter  personages, 
in  his  degree,  having  a  consciousness  that  he,  too,  was  a 
fine  fellow.  Then  all  these  fine  fellows,  with  the  drums 
and  music,  and  with  all  their  "fethers"  and  finery,  went 
three  times  round  the  fire,  whereas,  considering  that  the 
172 


Christmas   Revels 

boar's  head  was  cooling  all  the  time,  we  think  once  might 
have  sufficed.  Then  the  constable  marshal,  after  three 
courtesies,  knelt  down  before  the  Lord  C'lancellor,  with 
the  lieutenant  doing  the  same  behind  him,  and  then  and 
there  deliberately  proceeded  to  deliver  himself  of  an  "  ora- 
tion of  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  length,"  the  purport  of  which 
was  to  tender  his  services  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  which, 
we  think,  at  such  a  time,  he  might  have  contrived  to  do  in 
fewer  words.  To  this  the  Chancellor  was  unwise  enough 
to  reply  that  he  would  "take  farther  advice  therein,"  when 
it  would  have  been  much  better  for  him  to  settle  the  matter 
at  once,  and  proceed  to  eat  his  dinner.  However,  this 
part  of  the  ceremony  ended  at  last  by  the  constable  mar- 
shal and  the  lieutenant  obtaining  seats  at  the  Chancellor's 
table,  upon  the  former  giving  up  his  sword;  and  then 
enter,  for  a  similar  purpose,  the  master  of  the  game,  ap- 
parelled in  green  velvet,  and  the  ranger  of  the  forest,  in  a 
green  suit  of  "satten,"  bearing  in  his  hand  a  green  bow, 
and  'divers"  arrows,  "with  either  of  them  a  hunting-horn 
about  their  necks,  blowing  together  three  blasts  of  venery." 
These  worthies,  also,  thought  it  necessary  to  parade  their 
finery  three  times  around  the  fire;  and  having  then  made 
similar  obeisances,  and  offered  up  a  similar  petition  in  a 
similar  posture,  they  were  finally  inducted  into  a  similar 
privilege. 

But  though  seated  at  the  Chancellor's  table,  and  no 
doubt  sufficiently  roused  by  the  steam  of  its  good  things, 
they  were  far  enough  as  yet  from  getting  anything  to  eat, 
as  a  consequence;  and  the  next  ceremony  is  one  which 
strikingly  marks  the  rudeness  of  the  times.  "A  huntsman 
Cometh  into  the  hall,  with  a  fox,  and  a  purse-net  with  a  cat, 
both  bound  at  the  end  of  a  staff,  and  with  them  nine  or 
173 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

ten  couple  of  hounds,  with  the  blowing  of  hunting-horns. 
And  the  fox  and  the  cat  are  set  upon  by  the  hounds, 
and  killed  beneath  the  fire."  "What  this  'merry  disport' 
signified  (if  practised)  before  the  Reformation,"  says  a 
writer  in  Mr.  Hone's  Year  Book,  "I  know  not.  In  'Ane 
compendious  boke  of  godly  and  spiritual  songs,  Edin- 
burgh, 162 1,  printed  from  an  old  copy,'  are  the  following 
lines,  seemingly  referring  to  some  pageant :  — 

*  The  hunter  is  Christ  that  hunts  in  haist, 
The  hunds  are  Peter  and  Pawle, 
The  paip  is  the  fox,  Rome  is  the  Rox 
That  rubbis  us  on  the  gall.'  " 

After  these  ceremonies,  the  welcome  permission  to  be- 
take themselves  to  the  far  more  interesting  one  of  an  attack 
upon  the  good  things  of  the  feast  appears  to  have  been  at 
length  given;  but  at  the  close  of  the  second  course  the 
subject  of  receiving  the  officers  who  had  tendered  their 
Christmas  service  was  renewed.  Whether  the  gentlemen 
of  the  law  were  burlesquing  their  own  profession  inten- 
tionally or  whether  it  was  an  awkward  hit,  like  that  which 
befell  their  brethren  of  Gray's  Inn,  does  not  appear. 
However  the  common  serjeant  made  what  is  called  "a 
plausible  speech,"  insisting  on  the  necessity  of  these  offi- 
cers "for  the  better  reputation  of  the  Commonwealth;" 
and  he  was  followed,  to  the  same  effect,  by  the  King's 
serjeant-at-law  till  the  Lord  Chancellor  silenced  them  by 
desiring  a  respite  of  further  advice,  which  it  is  greatly  to 
be  marvelled  he  had  not  done  sooner. 

And  thereupon  he  called  upon  the  "ancientest  of  the 
masters  of  the  revels"  for  a  song,  —  a.  proceeding  to  which 
we  give  our  unqualified  approbation. 

T.  K.  Hervey 

174 


Christmas  Revels 
King  Witlaf's  Drinking-Horn  ^^^ 

T 1  riTLAF,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 

'  *    Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 
To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed,  — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels. 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl. 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 
And  bade  the  goblet  pass; 

In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  His  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 

And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 
They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent. 
From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

175 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Guthlac  and  Bartholomaeus, 
Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney 

And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 
And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered 

But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  stiU  in  his  pallid  fingers 

He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 
In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 

Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore. 
For  they  cried,  "  FiH  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


Old  Christmastide     ^:>    ^^     ^:>    ^;>    ^^     -v^ 

TTEAP  on  more  wood !  —  the  wind  is  chill; 
^  ^  But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We'H  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 
Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer. 
Even  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 
At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain ; 
High  on  the  beach  his  galley  drew. 
And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew; 
Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall. 
Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall, 
176 


Christmas  Revels 

They  gorged  upon  the  half -dressed  steer; 

Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer; 

While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 

The  half-gnawed  rib  and  marrow-bone. 

Or  listened  all,  in  grim  delight. 

While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joy  of  fight, 

Then  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie. 

While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly; 

And,  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile. 

They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while, 

As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 

The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 

Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled, 

And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 

With  all  his  hospitable  train. 

Domestic  and  religious  rite 

Gave  honour  to  the  holy  night: 

On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung; 

On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung; 

That  only  night,  in  all  the  year, 

Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 

The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen; 

The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green ; 

Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry  men  go, 

To  gather  in  the  mistletoe; 

Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 

To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all; 

Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside. 

And  ceremony  doffed  his  pride. 

The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes, 

That  night  might  village  partner  choose; 

N  177 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

The  lord,  underogating,  share 

The  vulgar  game  of  ''  post  and  pair." 

All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight, 

And  general  voice,  the  happy  night 

That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 

Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 

Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide; 

The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face. 

Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 

Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 

No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 

Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn 

By  old  blue-coated  serving  man; 

Then  the  grim  boar's  head  frowned  on  high, 

Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 

Well  can  the  green -garbed  ranger  tell, 

How,  when,  and  where,  the  monster  fell; 

What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 

And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 

The  Wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls, 

Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 

There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked;   hard  by 

Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie; 

Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce. 

At  such  high  tide,  her  savoury  goose. 

Then  came  the  merry  masquers  in. 

And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din; 

If  unmelodious  was  the  song. 

It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 

Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 

Traces  of  ancient  mystery; 

178 


Christmas   Revels 

White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  vizors  made: 
But,  O  !   what  masquers,  richly  dight, 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'Twas  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale; 
'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


Christmas  Games  in  ''Old  Wardle's"  Kitchen  ^^ 

[According  to  annual  custom,  on  Christmas  eve,  observed 
by  old  Wardle's  forefathers  from  time  immemorial.] 

"PROM  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  of  this  kitchen,  old 
-*■  Wardle  had  just  suspended  with  his  own  hands  a 
huge  branch  of  mistletoe,  and  this  same  branch  of  mistletoe 
instantaneously  gave  rise  to  a  scene  of  general  and  most 
delightful  struggling  of  confusion;  in  the  midst  of  which 
Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a  gallantry  which  would  have  done 
honour  to .  a  descendant  of  Lady  Tollimglower  herself, 
took  the  old  lady  by  the  hand,  led  her  beneath  the  mystic 
branch,  and  saluted  her  in  all  courtesy  and  decorum. 
The  old  lady  submitted  to  this  piece  of  practical  politeness 
with  all  the  dignity  which  befitted  so  important  and  serious 
a  solemnity,  but  the  younger  ladies,  not  being  so  thoroughly 
imbued  with  a  superstitious  veneration  of  the  custom,  or 
imagining  that  the  value  of  a  salute  is  very  much  enhanced 
if  it  cost  a  little  trouble  to  obtain  it,  screamed  and  struggled, 
and  ran  into  corners,  and  threatened  and  remonstrated, 
179 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

and  did  everything  but  leave  the  room,  until  some  of  the 
less  adventurous  gentlemen  were  on  the  point  of  desisting, 
when  they  all  at  once  found  it  useless  to  resist  any  longer, 
and  submitted  to  be  kissed  with  a  good  grace.  Mr. 
Winkle  kissed  the  young  lady  with  the  black  eyes,  and 
Mr.  Snodgrass  kissed  Emily;  and  Mr.  Weller,  not  being 
particular  about  the  form  of  being  under  the  mistletoe, 
kissed  Emma  and  the  other  female  servants,  just  as  he 
caught  them.  As  to  the  poor  relations,  they  kissed  every- 
body, not  even  excepting  the  plainer  portion  of  the  young- 
lady  visitors,  who,  in  their  excessive  confusion,  ran  right 
under  the  mistletoe,  directly  it  was  hung  up,  without 
knowing  it !  Wardle  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
surveying  the  whole  scene  with  the  utmost  satisfaction; 
and  the  fat  boy  took  the  opportunity  of  appropriating 
to  his  own  use,  and  summarily  devouring,  a  particularly 
fine  mince-pie,  that  had  been  carefully  put  by  for  some- 
body else. 

Now  the  screaming  had  subsided,  and  faces  were  in  a 
glow  and  curls  in  a  tangle,  and  Mr.  Pickwick,  after  kissing 
the  old  lady  as  before-mentioned,  was  standing  under  the 
mistletoe,  looking  with  a  very  pleased  countenance  on  all 
that  was  passing  around  him,  when  the  young  lady  with 
the  black  eyes,  after  a  little  whispering  with  the  other  young 
ladies,  made  a  sudden  dart  forward,  and,  putting  her  arm 
round  Mr.  Pickwick's  neck,  saluted  him  affectionately  on 
the  left  cheek ;  and  before  Mr.  Pickwick  distinctly  knew 
what  was  the  matter,  he  was  surrounded  by  the  whole 
body,  and  kissed  by  every  one  of  them. 

It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  Mr.  Pickwick  in  the  centre 
of  the  group,  now  pulled  this  way,  and  then  that,  and  first 
kissed  on  the  chin  and  then  on  the  nose,  and  then  on  the 
1 80 


Christmas   Revels 

spectacles,  and  to  hear  the  peals  of  laughter  which  were 
raised  on  every  side;  but  it  was  a  still  more  pleasant  thing 
to  see  Mr.  Pickwick,  blinded  shortly  afterwards  with  a 
silk-handkerchief,  falling  up  against  the  wall,  and  scram- 
bling into  corners,  and  gjing  through  all  the  mysteries  of 
bhnd-man's  buff,  with  the  utmost  relish  for  the  game, 
until  at  last  he  caught  one  of  the  poor  relations ;  and  then 
had  to  evade  the  blind-man  himself,  which  he  did  with  a 
nimbleness  and  agility  that  elicited  the  admiration  and 
applause  of  all  beholders.  The  poor  relations  caught 
just  the  people  whom  they  thought  would  like  it;  and 
when  the  game  flagged,  got  caught  themselves.  When 
they  were  all  tired  of  blind-man's  buff,  there  was  a  great 
game  at  snap-dragon,  and  when  fingers  enough  were 
burned  with  that,  and  all  the  raisins  gone,  they  sat  down 
by  the  huge  fire  of  blazing  logs  to  a  substantial  supper, 
and  a  mighty  bowl  of  wassail,  something  smaller  than  an 
ordinary  wash-house  copper,  in  which  the  hot  apples 
were  hissing  and  bubbling  with  a  rich  look,  and  a  jolly 
sound,  that  were  perfectly  irresistible. 

**This,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  looking  round  him,  ''this 
is,  indeed,  comfort." 

''Our  invariable  custom,"  replied  Mr.  Wardle.  "Every- 
body sits  down  with  us  on  Christmas  eve,  as  you  see  them 
now  —  servants  and  all;  and  here  we  wait  till  the  clock 
strikes  twelve,  to  usher  Christmas  in,  and  wile  away  the 
time  with  forfeits  and  old  stories.  Trundle,  my  boy, 
rake  up  the  fire." 

Up  flew  the  bright  sparks  in  myriads  as  the  logs  were 
stirred,  and  the  deep  red  blaze  sent  forth  a  rich  glow,  that 
penetrated  into  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room,  and  cast 
its  cheerful  tint  on  every  face. 
i8i 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"Come,"  said  Wardle,  "a,  song  —  a  Christmas  song. 
I'll  give  you  one,  in  default  of  a  better." 

"Bravo,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"Fill  up,"  cried  Wardle.  "It  will  be  two  hours  good 
before  you  see  the  bottom  of  the  bowl  through  the  deep 
rich  colour  of  the  wassail;  fill  up  all  round,  and  now  for 
the  song." 

Thus  saying,  the  merry  old  gentleman,  in  a  good,  round, 
sturdy  voice,  commenced  without  more  ado  — 

A  Christmas  Carol 

I  care  not  for  Spring;   on  his  fickle  wing 

Let  the  blossoms  and  buds  be  borne: 

He  woos  them  amain  with  his  treacherous  rain, 

And  he  scatters  them  ere  the  morn. 

An  inconstant  elf,  he  knows  not  himself, 

Or  his  own  changing  mind  an  hour, 

He'U  smile  in  your  face,  and  with  wry  grimace, 

He'll  wither  your  youngest  flower. 

Let  the  Summer  sun  to  his  bright  home  run. 

He  shall  never  be  sought  by  me; 

When  he's  dimmed  by  a  cloud  I  can  laugh  aloud, 

And  care  not  how  sulky  he  be; 

For  his  darling  child  is  the  madness  wild 

That  sports  in  fierce  fever's  train; 

And  when  love  is  too  strong,  it  don't  last  long, 

As  many  have  found  to  their  pain. 

A  mild  harvest  night,  by  the  tranquil  light 
Of  the  modest  and  gentle  moon, 
Has  a  far  sweeter  sheen  for  me,  I  ween, 
Than  the  broad  and  unblushing  noon. 
But  every  leaf  awakens  my  grief, 
As  it  lies  beneath  the  tree; 
So  let  Autumn  air  be  never  so  fair, 
It  by  no  means  agrees  with  me. 
182 


Christmas  Revels 

But  my  song  I  troll  out,  for  Christmas  stout, 

The  hearty,  the  true,  and  the  bold; 

A  bumper  I  drain,  and  with  might  and  main 

Give  three  cheers  for  this  Christmas  old. 

We'll  usher  him  in  with  a  merry  din 

That  shall  gladden  his  joyous  heart. 

And  we'll  keep  him  up  while  there's  bite  or  sup, 

And  in  fellowship  good,  we'll  part. 

In  his  fine  honest  pride,  he  scorns  to  hide 

One  jot  of  his  hard- weather  scars; 

They're  no  disgrace,  for  there's  much  the  same  trace 

On  the  cheeks  of  our  bravest  tars. 

Then  again  I  sing  'till  the  roof  doth  ring, 

And  it  echoes  from  wall  to  wall  — 

To  the  stout  old  wight,  fair  welcome  to-night, 

As  the  King  of  the  Seasons  all ! 

This  song  was  tumultuously  applauded,  for  friends  and 
dependents  make  a  capital  audience;  and  the  poor  rela- 
tions especially  were  in  perfect  ecstasies  of  rapture.  Again 
was  the  fire  replenished,  and  again  went  the  wassail  round. 

Charles  Dickens 


A  ''Mystery"  as  performed  in  Mexico     ^::v     <:> 

A  GAINST  the  wing-wall  of  the  Hacienda  del  Mayo, 
-^^  which  occupied  one  end  of  the  plaza,  was  raised  a 
platform,  on  which  stood  a  table  covered  with  scarlet  cloth. 
A  rude  bower  of  cane-leaves,  on  one  end  of  the  plat- 
form, represented  the  manger  of  Bethlehem;  while  a 
cord,  stretched  from  its  top  across  the  plaza  to  a  hole 
in  the  front  of  the  church,  bore  a  large  tinsel  star,  sus- 
pended by  a  hole  in  its  centre.  There  was  quite  a 
crowd   in   the   plaza,   and   very  soon    a    procession    ap- 

183 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

peared,  coming  up  from  the  lower  part  of  the  village. 
The  three  kings  took  the  lead;  the  Virgin,  mounted 
on  an  ass  that  gloried  in  a  gilded  saddle  and  rose-be- 
sprinkled mane  and  tail,  followed  them,  led  by  the  angel; 
and  several  women,  with  curious  masks  of  paper,  brought 
up  the  rear.  Two  characters,  of  the  harlequin  sort  —  one 
with  a  dog's  head  on  his  shoulders,  and  the  other  a  bald- 
headed  friar,  with  a  huge  hat  hanging  on  his  back  —  played 
all  sorts  of  antics  for  the  diversion  of  the  crowd.  After  mak- 
ing the  circuit  of  the  plaza,  the  Virgin  was  taken  to  the 
platform,  and  entered  the  manger.  King  Herod  took  his 
seat  at  the  scarlet  table,  with  an  attendant  in  blue  coat  and 
red  sash,  whom  I  took  to  be  his  Prime  Minister.  The  three 
kings  remained  on  their  horses  in  front  of  the  church; 
but  between  them  and  the  platform,  under  the  string  on 
which  the  star  was  to  slide,  walked  two  men  in  long  white 
robes  and  blue  hoods,  with  parchment  folios  in  their  hands. 
These  were  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East,  as  one  might  readily 
know  from  their  solemn  air,  and  the  mysterious  glances 
which  they  cast  towards  all  quarters  of  the  heavens. 

In  a  little  while,  a  company  of  women  on  the  platform, 
concealed  behind  a  curtain,  sang  an  angelic  chorus  to  the 
tune  of  '  Opescator  dell'  onda.'  At  the  proper  moment,  the 
Magi  turned  towards  the  platform,  followed  by  the  star,  to 
which  a  string  was  conveniently  attached,  that  it  might  be 
slid  along  the  line.  The  three  kings  followed  the  star  till  it 
reached  the  manger,  when  they  dismounted,  and  inquired 
for  the  sovereign,  whom  it  had  led  them  to  visit.  They 
were  invited  upon  the  platform,  and  introduced  to  Herod, 
as  the  only  king;  this  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  them,  and, 
after  some  conversation,  they  retired.  By  this  time  the 
star  had  receded  to  the  other  end  of  the  line,  and  commenced 
184 


HT 

m 

/ 

H. 

m 

Nfel 

g 

^Hr= 

■ 

i 

Wt 

'^ 

X 

X 

J^Hlll^ 

.    _^^ 

-—-^ 

\  -     ■ 

Christmas  Revels 

moving  forward  again,  they  following.  The  angel  called 
them  into  the  manger,  where,  upon  their  knees,  they  were 
shown  a  small  wooden  box,  supposed  to  contain  the  sacred 
infant;  they  then  retired,  and  the  star  brought  them  back  no 
more.  After  this  departure.  King  Herod  declared  himself 
greatly  confused  by  what  he  had  witnessed,  and  was  very 
much  afraid  this  newly  found  king  would  weaken  his  power. 
Upon  consultation  with  his  Prime  Minister,  the  Massacre 
of  the  Innocents  was  decided  upon,  as  the  only  means  of 
security. 

The  angel,  on  hearing  this,  gave  warning  to  the  Virgin, 
who  quickly  got  down  from  the  platform,  mounted  her 
bespangled  donkey,  and  hurried  off.  Herod's  Prime 
Minister  directed  all  the  children  to  be  handed  up  for 
execution.  A  boy,  in  a  ragged  sarape,  was  caught  and 
thrust  forward;  the  Minister  took  him  by  the  heels  in  spite 
of  his  kicking,  and  held  his  head  on  the  table.  The  little 
brother  and  sister  of  the  boy,  thinking  he  was  really  to  be 
decapitated,  yelled  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  in  an  agony 
of  terror,  which  threw  the  crowd  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
King  Herod  brought  down  his  sword  with  a  whack  on  the 
table,  and  the  Prime  Minister,  dipping  his  brush  into  a  pot 
of  white  paint  which  stood  before  him,  made  a  flaring  cross 
on  the  boy's  face.  Several  other  boys  were  caught  and 
served  likewise;  and,  finally,  the  two  harlequins,  whose 
kicks  and  struggles  nearly  shook  down  the  platform.  The 
procession  then  went  off  up  the  hill,  followed  by  the  whole 
population  of  the  village.  All  the  evening  there  were 
fandangoes  in  the  meson,  bonfires  and  rockets  on  the  plaza, 
ringing  of  bells,  and  high  mass  in  the  church,  with  the  ac- 
companiment of  two  guitars,  tinkling  to  lively  polkas. 

Bayard  Taylor  in  Eldorado 

185 


VIII 
WHEN  ALL  THE  WORLD  IS  KIN 


Christmas 

Christmas  Night  of  '62 

Merry  Christmas  in  the  Tenements 

Christmas  at  Sea 

The  First  Christmas  Tree  in  the  Legation 

Compound,  at  Tokyo,  Japan 
Christmas  in  India 
A  Belgian  Christmas  Eve  Procession 
Christmas  at  the  Cape 
The  "  Good  Night"  in  Spain 
Christmas  in  Rome 
Christmas  in  Burgundy 
Christmas  in  Germany 
Christmas  Dinner  in  a  Clipper's  Fo'c'sle 
Christmas  in  Jail 
Colonel  Carter's  Christmas  Tree 


T)UT  Christmas  is  not  only  the  mile-mark  of  another 
*~^  year,  moving  us  to  thoughts  of  self-examination,  —  it 
is  a  season,  from  all  its  associations,  whether  domestic  or 
religious,  suggesting  thoughts  of  joy.  A  man  dissatisfied 
with  his  endeavors  is  a  man  tempted  to  sadness.  And  in 
the  midst  of  winter,  when  his  life  runs  lowest  and  he  is 
reminded  of  the  empty  chairs  of  his  beloved,  it  is  well 
that  he  should  be  condemned  to  this  fashion  of  the  smil- 
ing face. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


190 


Christmas  Night  oi  '62    <::>     ^^     ^^^     ^:>     ^;>y 

nPHE  wintry  blast  goes  wailing  by, 

-*-     The  snow  is  falling  overhead; 

I  hear  the  lonely  sentry's  tread, 

And  distant  watch-fires  light  the  sky. 

Dim  forms  go  flitting  through  the  gloom; 

The  soldiers  cluster  round  the  blaze 

To  talk  of  other  Christmas  days, 
And  softly  speak  of  home  and  home. 

My  sabre  swinging  overhead, 

Gleams  in  the  watch-fire's  fitful  glow. 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow, 

And  memory  leads  me  to  the  dead. 

My  thoughts  go  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Vibrating  'twixt  the  Now  and  Then; 
I  see  the  low-browed  home  agen. 

The  old  hall  wreathed  with  mistletoe. 

And  sweetly  from  the  far  off  years 

Comes  borne  the  laughter  faint  and  low, 
The  voices  of  the  Long  Ago ! 

My  eyes  are  wet  with  tender  tears. 

I  feel  agen  the  mother  kiss, 

I  see  agen  the  glad  surprise 

That  lighted  up  the  tranquil  eyes 
And  brimmed  them  o'er  with  tears  of  bliss, 
191 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

As,  rushing  from  the  old  hall-door, 

She  fondly  clasped  her  wayward  boy  — 
Her  face  all  radiant  with  the  joy 

She  felt  to  see  him  home  once  more. 

My  sabre  swinging  on  the  bough 

Gleams  in  the  watch-fire's  fitful  glow, 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow 

Aslant  upon  my  saddened  brow. 

Those  cherished  faces  all  are  gone! 
Asleep  within  the  quiet  graves 
Where  lies  the  snow  in  drifting  waves,  — 

And  I  am  sitting  here  alone. 

There's  not  a  comrade  here  to-night 
But  knows  that  loved  ones  far  away 
On  bended  knees  this  night  will  pray: 

"  God  bring  our  darling  from  the  fight." 

But  there  are  none  to  wish  me  back, 

For  me  no  yearning  prayers  arise. 

The  lips  are  mute  and  closed  the  eyes  — 
My  home  is  in  the  bivouac. 

In  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia. 

William  G.  McCabe 

Quoted  from  W.  P.  Trent's  Southern  Writers 

Merry  Christmas  in  the  Tenements    ^^::>    <::>    ^:^ 

TT  was  just  a  sprig  of  holly,  with  scarlet  berries  showing 
■^    against  the  green,  stuck  in,  by  one  of  the  office  boys  prob- 
ably, behind  the  sign  that  pointed  the  way  up  to  the  editorial 
192 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

rooms.  There  was  no  reason  why  it  should  have  made  me 
start  when  I  came  suddenly  upon  it  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs ; 
but  it  did.  Perhaps  it  was  because  that  dingy  hall,  given 
over  to  dust  and  draughts  all  the  days  of  the  year,  was  the 
last  place  in  which  I  expected  to  meet  with  any  sign  of 
Christmas;  perhaps  it  was  because  I  myself  had  nearly 
forgotten  the  holiday.  Whatever  the  cause,  it  gave  me 
quite  a  turn. 

I  stood,  and  stared  at  it.  It  looked  dry,  almost  withered. 
Probably  it  had  come  a  long  way.  Not  much  holly  grows 
about  Printing-House  Square,  except  in  the  colored  supple- 
ments, and  that  is  scarcely  of  a  kind  to  stir  tender  memories. 
Withered  and  dry,  this  did.  I  thought,  with  a  twinge  of 
conscience,  of  secret  little  conclaves  of  my  children,  of 
private  views  of  things  hidden  from  mamma  at  the  bottom 
of  drawers,  of  wild  flights  when  papa  appeared  unbidden  in 
the  door,  which  I  had  allowed  for  once  to  pass  unheeded. 
Absorbed  in  the  business  of  the  office,  I  had  hardly  thought 
of  Christmas  coming  on,  until  now  it  was  here.  And  this 
sprig  of  holly  on  the  wall  that  had  come  to  remind  me,  — 
come  nobody  knew  how  far,  —  did  it  grow  yet  in  the  beech- 
wood  clearings,  as  it  did  when  I  gathered  it  as  a  boy, 
tracking  through  the  snow  ?  "  Christ-thorn  "  we  called  it  in 
our  Danish  tongue.  The  red  berries,  to  our  simple  faith, 
were  the  drops  of  blood  that  fell  from  the  Saviour's  brow  as 
it  dropped  under  its  cruel  crown  upon  the  cross.  .  .  . 

The  lights  of  the  Bowery  glow  like  a  myriad  twinkling 
stars  upon  the  ceaseless  flood  of  humanity  that  surges 
ever  through  the  great  highway  of  the  homeless.  They 
shine  upon  long  rows  of  lodging-houses,  in  which  hundreds 
of  young  men,  cast  helpless  upon  the  reef  of  the  strange 
o  193 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

city,  are  learning  their  first  lessons  of  utter  loneliness; 
for  what  desolation  is  there  like  that  of  the  careless  crowd 
when  all  the  world  rejoices  ?  They  shine  upon  the  tempter 
setting  his  snares  there,  and  upon  the  missionary  and  the 
Salvation  Army  lass,  disputing  his  catch  with  him;  upon 
the  police  detective  going  his  rounds  with  coldly  observant 
eye  intent  upon  the  outcome  of  the  contest ;  upon  the  wreck 
that  is  past  hope,  and  upon  the  youth  pausing  on  the  verge 
of  the  pit  in  which  the  other  has  long  ceased  to  struggle. 
Sights  and  sounds  of  Christmas  there  are  in  plenty  in  the 
Bowery.  Balsam  and  hemlock  and  fir  stand  in  groves  along 
the  busy  thoroughfare,  and  garlands  of  green  embower 
mission  and  dive  impartially.  Once  a  year  the  old  street 
recalls  its  youth  with  an  effort.  It  is  true  that  it  is  largely 
a  commercial  effort;  that  the  evergreen,  with  an  instinct 
that  is  not  of  its  native  hills,  haunts  saloon -corners  by  pref- 
erence; but  the  smell  of  the  pine  woods  is  in  the  air,  and 
—  Christmas  is  not  too  critical  —  one  is  grateful  for  the  effort. 
It  varies  with  the  opportunity.  At  "Beefsteak  John's"  it  is 
content  with  artistically  embalming  crullers  and  mince-pies 
in  green  cabbage  under  the  window  lamp.  Over  yonder, 
where  the  mile-post  of  the  old  lane  still  stands,  —  in  its 
unhonored  old  age  become  the  vehicle  of  publishing  the 
latest  ''sure  cure"  to  the  world,  —  a  florist,  whose  unde- 
nominational zeal  for  the  holiday  and  trade  outstrips  alike 
distinction  of  creed  and  property,  has  transformed  the  side- 
walk and  the  ugly  railroad  structure  into  a  veritable  bower, 
spanning  it  with  a  canopy  of  green,  under  which  dwell  with 
him,  in  neighborly  good-will,  the  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association  and  the  Jewish  tailor  next  door.  .  .  . 

Down  at  the  foot  of  the  Bowery  is  the  "panhandlers' 
beat,"  where  the  saloons  elbow  one  another  at  every  step, 
194 


When  All  the  World  Is  Kin 

crowding  out  all  other  business  than  that  of  keeping  lodgers 
to  support  them.  Within  call  of  it,  across  the  square, 
stands  a  church  which,  in  the  memory  of  men  yet  living, 
was  built  to  shelter  the  fashionable  Baptist  audiences  of  a 
day  when  Madison  Square  was  out  in  the  fields,  and  Harlem 
had  a  foreign  sound.  The  fashionable  audiences  are  gone 
long  since.  To-day  the  church,  fallen  into  premature  decay, 
but  still  handsome  in  its  strong  and  noble  lines,  stands  as  a 
missionary  outpost  in  the  land  of  the  enemy,  its  builders 
would  have  said,  doing  a  greater  work  than  they  planned. 
To-night  is  the  Christmas  festival  of  its  English-speaking 
Sunday-school,  and  the  pews  are  filled.  The  banners  of 
United  Italy,  of  modern  Hellas,  of  France  and  Germany  and 
England,  hang  side  by  side  with  the  Chinese  dragon  and  the 
starry  flag-signs  of  the  cosmopolitan  character  of  the  con- 
gregation. Greek  and  Roman  Catholics,  Jews  and  joss- 
worshippers,  go  there;  few  Protestants,  and  no  Baptists. 
It  is  easy  to  pick  out  the  children  in  their  seats  by  nationality, 
and  as  easy  to  read  the  story  of  poverty  and  suffering  that 
stands  written  in  more  than  one  mother's  haggard  face,  now 
beaming  with  pleasure  at  the  little  ones'  glee.  A  gayly 
decorated  Christmas  tree  has  taken  the  place  of  the  pulpit. 
At  its  foot  is  stacked  a  mountain  of  bundles,  Santa  Claus's 
gifts  to  the  school.  A  self-conscious  young  man  with  soap- 
locks  had  just  been  allowed  to  retire,  amid  tumultuous  ap- 
plause, after  blowing  "Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee"  on  his 
horn  until  his  cheeks  swelled  almost  to  bursting.  A  trumpet 
ever  takes  the  Fourth  Ward  by  storm.  A  class  of  little 
girls  is  climbing  upon  the  platform.  Each  wears  a  capital 
letter  on  her  breast,  and  together  they  spell  its  lesson.  There 
is  momentary  consternation:  one  is  missing.  As  the  dis- 
covery is  made,  a  child  pushes  past  the  doorkeeper,  hot  and 
195 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

breathless.  ''I  am  in  'Boundless  Love,' "  she  says,  and 
makes  for  the  platform,  where  her  arrival  restores  confi- 
dence and  the  language. 

In  the  audience  the  befrocked  visitor  from  up-town  sits 
cheek  by  jov^l  vi^ith  the  pigtailed  Chinaman  and  the  dark- 
browed  Italian.  Up  in  the  gallery,  farthest  from  the 
preacher's  desk  and  the  tree,  sits  a  Jewish  mother  with  three 
boys,  almost  in  rags.  A  dingy  and  threadbare  shawl  partly 
hides  her  poor  calico  wrap  and  patched  apron.  The 
woman  shrinks  in  the  pew,  fearful  of  being  seen ;  her  boys 
stand  upon  the  benches,  and  applaud  with  the  rest.  She 
endeavors  vainly  to  restrain  them.  ''Tick,  tick !"  goes  the 
old  clock  over  the  door  through  which  wealth  and  fashion 
went  out  long  years  ago,  and  poverty  came  in.  .  .  . 

Within  hail  of  the  Sullivan  Street  school  camps  a  scattered 
little  band,  the  Christmas  customs  of  which  I  had  been 
trying  for  years  to  surprise.  They  are  Indians,  a  handful 
of  Mohawks  and  Iroquois,  whom  some  ill  wind  has  blown 
down  from  their  Canadian  reservation,  and  left  in  these 
West  Side  tenements  to  eke  out  such  a  living  as  they  can, 
weaving  mats  and  baskets,  and  threading  glass  pearls  on 
slippers  and  pin-cushions,  until  one  after  another  they  have 
died  off  and  gone  to  happier  hunting-grounds  than  Thomp- 
son Street.  There  were  as  many  families  as  one  could 
count  on  the  fingers  of  both  hands  when  I  first  came  upon 
them,  at  the  death  of  old  Tamenund,  the  basket  maker. 
Last  Christmas  there  were  seven.  I  had  about  made  up  my 
mind  that  the  only  real  Americans  in  New  York  did  not  keep 
the  holiday  at  all,  when  one  Christmas  eve  they  showed  me 
how.  Just  as  dark  was  setting  in,  old  Mrs.  Benoit  came 
from  her  Hudson  Street  attic  —  where  she  was  known 
among  the  neighbors,  as  old  and  poor  as  she,  as  Mrs. 
196 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

Ben  Wah,  and  was  believed  to  be  the  relict  of  a  warrior  of 
the  name  of  Benjamin  Wah  —  to  the  office  of  the  Charity 
Organization  Society,  with  a  bundle  for  a  friend  who  had 
helped  her  over  a  rough  spot  —  the  rent,  I  suppose.  The 
bundle  was  done  up  elaborately  in  blue  cheese-cloth,  and 
contained  a  lot  of  little  garments  which  she  had  made  out  of 
the  remnants  of  blankets  and  cloth  of  her  own  from  a 
younger  and  better  day.  "For  those,"  she  said,  in  her 
French  patois,  ''who  are  poorer  than  myself;"  and  hobbled 
away.  I  found  out,  a  few  days  later,  when  I  took  her  pic- 
ture weaving  mats  in  the  attic  room,  that  she  had  scarcely 
food  in  the  house  that  Christmas  day  and  not  the  car  fare 
to  take  her  to  church !  Walking  was  bad,  and  her  old 
limbs  were  stiff.  She  sat  by  the  window  through  the  winter 
evening  and  watched  the  sun  go  down  behind  the  west- 
ern hills,  comforted  by  her  pipe.  Mrs.  Ben  Wah,  to  give 
her  her  local  name,  is  not  really  an  Indian;  but  her  hus- 
band was  one,  and  she  lived  all  her  life  with  the  tribe  till 
she  came  here.  She  is  a  philosopher  in  her  own  quaint 
way.  "It  is  no  disgrace  to  be  poor,"  said  she  to  me,  re- 
garding her  empty  tobacco-pouch ;  "but  it  is  sometimes  a 
great  inconvenience."  Not  even  the  recollection  of  the  vote 
of  censure  that  was  passed  upon  me  once  by  the  ladies  of 
the  Charitable  Ten  for  surreptitiously  supplying  an  aged 
couple,  the  special  object  of  their  charity,  with  army  plug, 
could  have  deterred  me  from  taking  the  hint.  .  .  . 

In  a  hundred  places  all  over  the  city,  when  Christmas 
comes,  as  many  open-air  fairs  spring  suddenly  into  life.  A 
kind  of  Gentile  Feast  of  Tabernacles  possesses  the  tenement 
districts  especially.  Green-embowered  booths  stand  in 
rows  at  the  curb,  and  the  voice  of  the  tin  trumpet  is  heard 
in  the  land.  The  common  source  of  all  the  show  is  down 
197 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

by  the  North  River,  in  the  district  known  as  "the  Farm." 
Down  there  Santa  Claus  estabhshes  headquarters  early  in 
December  and  until  past  New  Year.  The  broad  quay 
looks  then  more  like  a  clearing  in  a  pine  forest  than  a  busy 
section  of  the  metropolis.  The  steamers  discharge  their 
loads  of  fir  trees  at  the  piers  until  they  stand  stacked 
mountain  high,  with  foot-hills  of  holly  and  ground-ivy  trail- 
ing off  toward  the  land  side.  An  army  train  of  wagons  is  en- 
gaged in  carting  them  away  from  early  morning  till  late  at 
night ;  but  the  green  forest  grows,  in  spite  of  it  all,  until  in 
places  it  shuts  the  shipping  out  of  sight  altogether.  The 
air  is  redolent  with  the  smell  of  balsam  and  pine.  After 
nightfall,  when  the  lights  are  burning  in  the  busy  market, 
and  the  homeward-bound  crowds  with  baskets  and  heavy 
burdens  of  Christmas  greens  jostle  one  another  with  good- 
natured  banter,  —  nobody  is  ever  cross  down  here  in  the 
holiday  season,  —  it  is  good  to  take  a  stroll  through  the 
Farm,  if  one  has  a  spot  in  his  heart  faithful  yet  to  the  hills 
and  the  woods  in  spite  of  the  latter-day  city.  But  it  is  when 
the  moonlight  is  upon  the  water  and  upon  the  dark  phantom 
forest,  when  the  heavy  breathing  of  some  pass'ng  steamer  is 
the  only  sound  that  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night,  and  the 
watchman  smokes  his  only  pipe  on  the  bulwark,  that  the  Farm 
has  a  mood  and  an  atmosphere  all  its  own,  full  of  poetry 
which  some  day  a  painter's  brush  will  catch  and  hold.  .  .  . 
Farthest  down  town,  where  the  island  narrows  toward 
the  Battery,  and  warehouses  crowd  the  few  remaining 
tenements,  the  sombre-hued  colony  of  Syrians  is  astir 
with  preparation  for  the  holiday.  How  comes  it  that  in 
the  only  settlement  of  the  real  Christmas  people  in  New 
York  the  corner  saloon  appropriates  to  itself  all  the  outward 
signs  of  it  ?  Even  the  floral  cross  that  is  nailed  over  the  door 
io8 


When  All  the  World  is   Kin 

of  the  Orthodox  church  is  long  withered  and  dead;  it  has 
been  there  since  Easter,  and  it  is  yet  twelve  days  to  Christ- 
mas by  the  belated  reckoning  of  the  Greek  Church.  But 
if  the  houses  show  no  sign  of  the  holiday,  within  there  is 
nothing  lacking.  The  whole  colony  is  gone  a-visiting. 
There  are  enough  of  the  unorthodox  to  set  the  fashion,  and 
the  rest  follow  the  custom  of  the  country.  The  men  go 
from  house  to  house,  laugh,  shake  hands,  and  kiss  one  an- 
other on  both  cheeks,  with  the  salutation,  "Kol  am  va 
antom  Salimoon."  "Every  year  and  you  are  safe,"  the 
Syrian  guide  renders  it  into  English ;  and  a  non-professional 
interpreter  amends  it:  "May  you  grow  happier  year  by 
year."  Arrack  made  from  grapes  and  flavored  with  anise- 
seed,  and  candy  baked  in  little  white  balls  like  marbles,  are 
served  with  the  indispensable  cigarette;  for  long  callers, 
the  pipe.  .  .  . 

The  bells  in  old  Trinity  chime  the  midnight  hour.  From 
dark  hallways  men  and  women  pour  forth  and  hasten  to  the 
Maronite  church.  In  the  loft  of  the  dingy  old  warehouse 
wax  candles  burn  before  an  altar  of  brass.  The  priest,  in  a 
white  robe  with  a  huge  gold  cross  worked  on  the  back, 
chants  the  ritual.  The  people  respond.  The  women 
kneel  in  the  aisles,  shrouding  their  heads  in  their  shawls ;  a 
surpliced  acolyte  swings  his  censer;  the  heavy  perfume  of 
burning  incense  fills  the  hall. 

The  band  at  the  anarchists'  ball  is  tuning  up  for  the  last 
dance.  Young  and  old  float  to  the  happy  strains,  forget- 
ting injustice,  oppression,  hatred.  Children  slide  upon  the 
waxed  floor,  weaving  fearlessly  in  and  out  between  couples 
—  between  fierce,  bearded  men  and  short-haired  women 
with  crimson-bordered  kerchiefs.  A  Punch-and- Judy  show 
in  the  corner  evokes  shouts  of  laughter. 
199 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

Outside  the  snow  is  falling.  It  sifts  silently  into  each 
nook  and  corner,  softens  all  the  hard  and  ugly  lines,  and 
throws  the  spotless  mantle  of  charity  over  the  blemishes,  the 
shortcomings.  Christmas  morning  will  dawn  pure  and 
white. 

Jacob  Riis  in  Children  of  the  Tenements  (abridged) 


Christmas  at  Sea       -<;^     ^c^     ^^^     ^oy     ^^     -^^ 

'T^HE  sheets  were  frozen  hard,  and  they  cut  the  naked 
-*-       hand ; 
The  decks  were  like  a  slide,  where  a  seaman  scarce  could 

stand; 
The  wind  was  a  nor'wester,  blowing  squally  off  the  sea. 
And  the  cliffs  and  spouting  breakers  were  the  only  thing 

a-lee. 

We  heard  the  surf  a-roaring  before  the  break  of  day, 
But  'twas  only  with  the  peep  of  light  we  saw  how  ill  we  lay. 
We  tumbled  every  hand  on  deck,  instanter,  with  a  shout, 
And  we  gave  her  the  maintops'l,  and  stood  by  to  go  about. 

All  day  we  tacked  and  tacked  between  the  South  Head  and 

the  North; 
All  day  we  hauled  the  frozen  sheets  and  got  no  further  forth ; 
All  day  as  cold  as  charity,  in  bitter  pain  and  dread. 
For  very  life  and  nature  we  tacked  from  head  to  head. 

We  gave  the  South  a  wider  berth,  for  there  the  tide-race 

roared ; 
But  every  tack  we  made  we  brought  the  North  Head  close 

aboard : 

200 


When  All  the  World  is   Kin 

So's  we  saw  the  cliffs  and  houses,  and  the  breakers  running 

high, 
And  the  coast-guard  in  his  garden,  with  his  glass  against  his 

eye. 

The  frost  was  on  the  village  roofs  as  white  as  ocean  foam ; 
The  good  red  fires  were  burning  bright  in  every  'longshore 

home; 
The  windows  sparkled  clear,  and  the  chimneys  volleyed  out, 
And  I  vow  we  sniffed  the  victuals  as  the  vessel  went  about. 

The  bells  upon  the  church  were  rung  with  a  mighty  jovial 

cheer, 
For  it's  just  that  I  should  tell  you  how  (of  all  days  in  the 

year) 
This  day  of  our  adversity  was  blessed  Christmas  morn, 
And  the  house  above  the  coast-guard's  was  the  house  where 

I  was  born. 

O  well  I  saw  the  pleasant  room,  the  pleasant  faces  there, 
My  mother's  silver  spectacles,  my  father's  silver  hair; 
And  well  I  saw  the  firelight,  like  a  flight  of  homely  elves, 
Go  dancing  round  the  china-plates  that  stand  upon  the 
shelves. 

And  well  I  know  the  talk  they  had,  the  talk  that  was  of 

me. 
Of  the  shadow  on  the  household  and  the  son  that  went  to 

sea; 
And  O  a  wicked  fool  I  seemed,  in  every  kind  of  way. 
To  be  here  and  hauling  frozen  ropes  on  blessed  Christmas 

day! 

20I 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

They  lit  the  high  sea-light,  and  the  dark  began  to  fall. 

"  All  hands  to  loose  top-gallant  sails,"  I  heard  the  captain 
call. 

"  By  the  Lord,  she'll  never  stand  it,"  our  first  mate,  Jack- 
son, cried. 

"It's  the  one  way  or  the  other,  Mr.  Jackson,"  he  replied. 

She  staggered  to  her  bearings,  but  the  sails  were  new  and 

good, 
And  the  ship  smelt  up  to  windward  just  as  though  she 

understood. 
As   the   winter's  day  was   ending,   in   the  entry  of  the 

night. 
We  cleared  the  weary  headland  and  passed  below  the  light. 

And  they  heaved  a  mighty  breath,  every  soul  on  board  but 
me. 

As  they  saw  her  nose  again  pointing  handsome  out  to  sea; 

But  all  that  I  could  think  of,  in  the  darkness  and  the  cold, 

Was  just  that  I  was  leaving  home  and  my  folks  were  grow- 
ing old. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

By  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


The  First  Christmas  Tree  in  the  Legation  Com- 
pound at  Tokyo,  Japan     ^^^     ^:>     ^c^y     ^^ 

A    HUGE  Christmas  tree,  the  first  that  had  ever  grown  in 

*■    our  compound,  for  the  children  of  our  servants  and 

writers  and  employes,  who  make  up  the  number  of  our 

Legation  population  to  close  on  two  hundred,  beginning 

202 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

with  H ,  and  ending  with   the  last  jinriksha  coolie's 

youngest  baby.  I  could  not  have  the  tree  on  Christmas 
Day,  owing  to  various  engagements;  so  it  was  fixed  for 
January  3d,  and  was  quite  the  most  successful  entertain- 
ment I  ever  gave ! 

When  I  undertook  it,  I  confess  that  I  had  no  idea  how 
many  little  ones  belonged  to  the  compound.  I  sent  our 
good  Ogita  round  to  invite  them  all  solemnly  to  come  to 
Ichiban  (Number  One)  on  the  3d  at  five  o'clock.  Ogita 
threw  himself  into  the  business  with  delighted  goodwill, 
having  five  little  people  of  his  own  to  include  in  the  invita- 
tion ;  but  all  the  servants  were  eager  to  help  as  soon  as  they 
knew  we  were  preparing  a  treat  for  the  children.  That  is 
work  which  would  always  appeal  to  Japanese  of  any  age  or 
class.  No  trouble  is  too  great,  if  it  brings  pleasure  to  the 
"treasure  flowers,"  as  the  babies  are  called.  I  am  still  too 
ignorant  of  their  special  tastes  to  trust  my  own  judgment  in 

the  matter  of  presents;  so  Mr.  G left  the  dictionary  and 

the  Chancery  for  two  or  three  afternoons,  and  helped  me  to 
collect  an  appropriate  harvest  for  the  little  hands  to  glean. 
Some  of  them  were  not  little,  and  these  were  more  difficult  to 
buy  for;  but  after  many  cold  hours  passed  in  the  different 
bazaars,  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  must  be  something  for 
everybody,  although  we  had  really  spent  very  little  money. 

The  wares  were  so  quaint  and  pretty  that  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  sort  and  handle  them.  There  were  work  boxes  in  beauti- 
ful polished  woods,  with  drawers  fitting  so  perfectly  that 
when  you  closed  one  the  compressed  air  at  once  shot  out 
another.  There  were  mirrors  enclosed  in  charming  em- 
broidered cases;  for  where  mirrors  are  mostly  made  of 
metal,  people  learn  not  to  let  them  get  scratched.  There 
were  dollies  of  every  size,  and  dolls'  houses  and  furniture, 
203 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

kitchens,  farmyards,  rice-pounding  machines  —  all  made 
in  the  tiniest  proportions,  such  as  it  seemed  no  human 
fingers  could  really  have  handled.  For  the  elder  boys  we 
bought  books,  school-boxes  with  every  school  requisite 
contained  in  a  square  the  size  of  one's  hand,  and  pen- 
knives and  scissors,  which  are  greatly  prized  as  being  of 
foreign  manufacture.  Foi  decorations  we  had  an  abun- 
dant choice  of  materials.  I  got  forests  of  willow  branches 
decorated  with  artificial  fruits;  pink  and  white  balls  made 
of  rice  paste,  which  are  threaded  on  the  twigs;  surprise 
shells  of  the  same  paste,  two  lightly  stuck  together  in  the 
form  of  a  double  scallop  shell,  and  full  of  miniature  toys; 
kanzashi,  or  ornamental  hairpins  for  the  girls,  made 
flowers  of  gold  and  silver  among  my  dark  pine  branches; 
and  I  wasted  precious  minutes  in  opening  and  shutting 
these  dainty  roses  —  buds  until  you  press  a  spring,  when 
they  open  suddenly  into  a  full-blown  rose.  But  the  most 
beautiful  things  on  my  tree  were  the  icicles,  which  hung  in 
scores  from  its  sombre  foliage,  catching  rosy  gleams  of 
light  from  our  lamps  as  we  worked  late  into  the  night. 
These  were  —  chopsticks,  long  glass  chopsticks,  which  I 
discovered  in  the  bazaar;  and  I  am  sure  Santa  Klaus  him- 
self could  not  have  told  them  from  icicles.  Of  course  every 
present  must  be  labelled  with  a  child's  name,  and  here  my 
troubles  began.  Ogita  was  told  to  make  out  a  correct  list 
of  names  and  ages,  with  some  reference  to  the  calling  of  the 
parents;  for  even  here  rank  and  precedence  must  be  ob- 
served, or  terrible  heart-burnings  might  follow.  The  list 
came  at  last ;  and  if  it  were  not  so  long,  I  would  send  it  to 
you  complete,  for  it  was  a  curiosity.  Imagine  such  com- 
plicated titles  as  these:  "Minister's  second  cook's  girl. 
Ume,  age  2;  Minister's  servant's  cousin's  boy.  Age  11"; 
204 


When  All  the   World  is  Kin 

''Student  interpreter's  teacher's  girl";  "Vice-Consul's 
jinriksha-man's  boy."  And  so  it  went  on,  till  there  were 
fifty-eight  of  them  of  all  ages,  from  one  year  up  to  nineteen. 
Some  of  them,  indeed,  were  less  than  a  year  old;  and  I  was 
^amused  on  the  evening  of  the  2d  at  having  the  list  brought 
back  to  me  with  this  note  (Ogita's  English  is  still  highly 
individual !) :  "Marked  X  is  decHned  to  the  invitation,"  On 
looking  down  the  column,  I  found  that  ominous-looking 
cross  only  against  one  name,  that  of  Yasu,  daughter  of  Ito 

Kanejiro,  Mr.  G 's  cook.    This  recalcitrant  little  person 

turned  out  to  be  six  weeks  old  —  an  early  age  for  parties 
even  nowadays.  Miss  Yasu,  having  been  born  in  Novem- 
ber, was'put  down  in  the  following  January  as  two  years  old, 
after  the  puzzling  Japanese  fashion.  Then  I  found  that 
they  would  write  boys  as  girls,  girls  as  boys,  grown-ups  as 
babies,  and  so  on.  Even  at  the  last  moment  a  doll  had  to  be 
turned  into  a  sword,  a  toy  tea-set  into  a  workbox,  a  history 
of  Europe  into  a  rattle;  but  people  who  grow  Christmas 
trees' are  prepared  for  such  small  contingencies,  and  no  one 
knew  anything  about  it  when  on  Friday  afternoon  the 
great  tree  slowly  glowed  into  a  pyramid  of  light,  and  a  long 
procession  of  little  Japs  was  marshalled  in,  with  great 
solemnity  and  many  bows,  till  they  stood,  a  delighted, 
wide-eyed  crowd,  round  the  beautiful  shining  thing,  the 
first  Christmas  tree  any  one  of  them  had  ever  seen.  It  was 
worth  all  the  trouble,  to  see  the  gasp  of  surprise  and  delight, 
the  evident  fear  that  the  whole  thing  might  be  unreal  and 
suddenly  fade  away.  One  little  man  of  two  fell  flat  on  his 
back  with  amazement,  tried  to  rise  and  have  another  look, 
and  in  so  doing  rolled  over  on  his  nose,  where  he  lay  quite 
silent  till  his  relatives  rescued  him.  Behind  the  children 
stood  the  mothers,  quite  as  pleased  as  they,  and  with  them 
205 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

one  very  old  lady  with  a  little  child  on  her  back.  She 
turned  out  to  be  the  Vice-Consul's  jinriksha-man's  grand- 
mother; the  wife  of  that  functionary  was  dead,  and  the  old 
lady  had  to  take  her  place  in  carrying  about  the  poor  little 
V.  C.  J.  R.  S.  M.'s  boy  baby. 

The  children  stood,  the  little  ones  in  front  and  the  taller 
ones  behind,  in  a  semicircle,  and  the  many  lights  showed 
their  bright  faces  and  gorgeous  costumes,  for  no  one  would 
be  outdone  by  another  in  smartness  —  I  fancy  the  poorer 
women  had  borrowed  from  richer  neighbours  —  and  the 
result  was  picturesque  in  the  extreme.  The  older  girls  had 
their  heads  beautifully  dressed,  with  flowers  and  pins  and 
rolls  of  scarlet  crape  knotted  in  between  the  coils;  their 
dresses  were  pale  green  or  blue,  with  bright  linings  and  stiff 
silk  obis;  but  the  little  ones  were  a  blaze  of  scarlet,  green, 
geranium  pink,  and  orange,  their  long  sleeves  sweeping  the 
ground,  and  the  huge  flower  patterns  of  their  garments 
making  them  look  like  live  flowers  as  they  moved  about  on 
the  dark  velvet  carpet.  When  they  had  gazed  their  fill, 
they  were  called  up  to  me  one  by  one,  Ogita  addressing 
them  all  as  "San"  (Miss  or  Mr.),  even  if  they  could  only 
toddle,  and  I  gave  them  their  serious  presents  with  their 
names,  written  in  Japanese  and  English,  tied  on  with  red 
ribbon  —  an  attention  which,  as  I  was  afterwards  told,  they 
appreciated  greatly.  It  seemed  to  me  that  they  never  would 
end ;  their  size  varied  from  a  wee  mite  who  could  not  carry 
its  own  toys  to  a  tall  handsome  student  of  sixteen,  or  a 
gorgeous  young  lady  in  green  and  mauve  crape  and  a  head 
that  must  have  taken  the  best  part  of  a  day  to  dress. 

In  one  thing  they  were  all  alike:  their  manners  were 
perfect.  There  was  no  pushing  or  grasping,  no  glances  of 
envy  at  what  other  children  received,  no  false  shyness  in 
206 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

their  sweet  happy  way  of  expressing  their  thanks.  I  had 
for  my  helpers  two  somewhat  antagonistic  volunteers  — 
Sir  Edwin  Arnold,  basking  in  Buddhistic  calms,  and  Bishop 
Bickersteth,  intensely  Anglican,  severe-looking,  ascetic. 
There  had  already  been  some  polite  theological  encounters 
at  our  table,  and  I  did  not  feel  sure  that  the  combination 
would  prove  a  happy  one.  But  each  man  is  a  wonder  of 
kind-heartedness  in  his  own  way;  and  my  doubts  were  re- 
placed by  sunshiny  certainties,  when  I  saw  how  they  both 
began  by  beaming  at  the  children,  and  ended  by  beaming 
on  one  another.  I  was  puzzled  by  one  thing  about  the 
children :  although  we  kept  giving  them  sweets  and  oranges 
off  the  tree,  every  time  I  looked  round  the  big  circle  all 
were  empty-handed  again,  and  it  really  seemed  as  if  they 
must  have  swallowed  the  gifts,  gold  paper  and  ribbon  and 
all.  But  at  last  I  noticed  that  their  square  hanging  sleeves 
began  to  have  a  strange  lumpy  appearance,  like  a  conjurer's 
waistcoat  just  before  he  produces  twenty-four  bowls  of  live 
goldfish  from  his  internal  economy ;  and  then  I  understood 
that  the  plunder  was  at  once  dropped  into  these  great 
sleeves  so  as  to  leave  hands  free  for  anything  else  that 
Okusama  might  think  good  to  bestow.  One  little  lady, 
O'Haru  San,  aged  three,  got  so  overloaded  with  goodies  and 
toys  that  they  kept  rolling  out  of  her  sleeves,  to  the  great 
delight  of  the  Brown  Ambassador  Dachshund,  Tip,  who 
pounced  on  them  like  lightning,  and  was  also  convicted  of 
nibbling  at  cakes  on  the  lower  branches  of  the  tree. 

The  bigger  children  would  not  take  second  editions  of 
presents,  and  answered,  "Honourable  thanks,  I  have!"  if 
offered  more  than  they  thought  their  share;  but  babies  are 
babies  all  the  world  over!  When  the  distribution  was 
finished  at  last,  I  got  a  Japanese  gentleman  to  tell  them 
207 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

the  story  of  Christmas,  the  children's  feast;  and  then  they 
came  up  one  by  one  to  say  "Sayonara"  ("Since  it  must  be," 
the  Japanese  farewell),  and  ''Arigato  gozaimasu"  ("The 
honourable  thanks"). 

"Come  back  next  year,"  I  said;  and  then  the  last  pres- 
ents were  given  out  —  beautiful  lanterns,  red,  lighted,  and 
hung  on  what  Ogita  calls  bumboos,  to  light  the  guests 
home  with.  One  tiny  maiden  refused  to  go,  and  flung 
herself  on  the  floor  in  a  passion  of  weeping,  saying  that 
Okusama's  house  was  too  beautiful  to  leave,  and  she  would 
stay  with  me  always  —  yes,  she  would !  Only  the  sight  of 
the  lighted  lantern,  bobbing  on  a  stick  twice  as  long  as  her- 
self, persuaded  her  to  return  to  her  own  home  in  the  servants' 
quarters.  I  stood  on  the  step,  the  same  step  where  I  had  set 
the  fireflies  free  one  warm  night  last  summer,  and  watched 
the  little  people  scatter  over  the  lawns,  and  disappear  into 
the  dark  shrubberies,  their  round  red  lights  dancing  and 
shifting  as  they  went,  just  as  if  my  fireflies  had  come  back, 
on  red  wings  this  time,  to  light  my  little  friends  to  bed. 

Mary  Crawford  Fraser 


Christmas  in  India         ^^>      ^^      ^;:>      ^^      ^^^^ 

"pviM  dawn  behind  the  tamarisks  —  the  sky  is  saffron- 
-*-^      yellow  — 

As  the  women  in  the  village  grind  the  corn, 
And  the  parrots  seek  the  river-side,  each  calling  to  his 
fellow 
That  the  Day,  the  staring  Eastern  Day  is  born. 
Oh  the  white  dust  on  the  highway !     Oh  the  stenches  in  the 
byway! 

208 


When  All  the  World  is   Kin 

Oh  the  clammy  fog  that  hovers  over  earth ! 
And  at  Home  they're  making  merry  'neath  the  white  and 
scarlet  berry  — 
What  part  have  India's  exiles  in  their  mirth? 

Full  day  behind  the  tamarisks  —  the  sky  is  blue  and  star- 
ing— 
As  the  cattle  crawl  afield  beneath  the  yoke, 
And  they  bear  One  o'er  the  field-path,  who  is  past  all  hope 
or  caring 
To  the  ghat  below  the  curling  wreaths  of  smoke. 
Call  on  Rama,  going  slowly,  as  ye  bear  a  brother  lowly  — 

Call  on  Rama  —  he  may  hear,  perhaps,  your  voice  ! 
With  our  hymn-books  and  our  Psalters  we  appeal  to  other 
altars 
And  to-day  we  bid  "good  Christian  men  rejoice!" 

High  noon  behind  the  tamarisks  —  the  sun  is  hot  above 
us  — 
As  at  Home  the  Christmas  Day  is  breaking  wan. 
They  will  drink  our  healths  at  dinner  —  those  who  tell  us 
how  they  love  us. 
And  forget  us  till  another  year  be  gone ! 
Oh  the  toil  that  needs  no  breaking!     Oh  the  Heimweh, 
ceaseless,  aching! 
Oh  the  black  dividing  Sea  and  alien  Plain ! 
Youth  was  cheap  —  wherefore  we  sold  it.     Gold  was  good 
—  we  hoped  to  hold  it, 
And  to-day  we  know  the  fulness  of  our  gain. 

Gray  dusk  behind   the  tamarisks  —  the  parrots  fly  to- 
gether — 
As  the  sun  is  sinking  slowly  over  Home; 
p  209 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

And  his  last  ray  seems  to  mock  us  shackled  in  a  lifelong 
tether 
That  drags  us  back  howe'er  so  far  we  roam. 
Hard  her  service,  poor  her  payment  —  she  in  ancient, 
tattered  raiment  — 
India,  she  the  grim  Stepmother  of  our  kind. 
If  the  year  of  life  be  lent  her,  if   her  temple's  shrine  we 
enter, 
The  door  is  shut  —  we  may  not  look  behind. 

Black  night  behind  the  tamarisks  —  the  owls  begin  their 
chorus  — 
As  the  conches  from  the  temples  cream  and  bray. 
With  the  fruitless  years  behind  us,  and  the  hopeless  years 
before  us. 
Let  us  honor,  O  my  brothers,  Christmas  Day! 
Call  a  truce,  then,  to  our  labors  —  let  us  feast  with  friends 
and  neighbors, 
And  be  merry  as  the  custom  of  our  caste; 
For  if  **  faint  and  forced  the  laughter,"  and  if  sadness 
follow  after. 
We  are  richer  by  one  mocking  Christmas  past. 

RuDYARD  Kipling 
By  permission  of  the  author  and  Messrs.  Methuen  6^  Co. 

A  Belgian  Christmas  Eve  Procession      ^^^^      -^^ 

A    CERTAIN  stir  and  bustle  in  the  street  evidently  por- 
tended some  important  event.     Spectators,  market- 
women  ;  workmen  and  bloused  peasants,  homeward  bound 
with  baskets  emptied  of  eggs,  chickens  and  shapeless  lumps 
of  butter,  began  to  congregate,  mingling  with  some  score 

2IO 


When  All  the  World  is   Kin 

or  so  of  that  minor  bourgeoisie  that  lives  frugally  on  its 
modest  income  and  having  overmuch  leisure  is  greedy 
for  a  sight  of  any  street  spectacle.  There  were  idle 
troopers  too  belonging  to  the  cavalry,  whose  trumpets 
rang  out  shrilly  ever  and  anon  from  the  barracks  hard  by; 
while  a  milk-woman  on  her  rounds,  with  ghttering  brass 
cans  in  the  little  green  cart  that  her  sturdy  mastiff  with 
his  brass-studded  harness  and  red  worsted  tassels  drew 
so  easily,  forgot  her  customers  as  she  secured  for  herself  a 
place  in  the  foremost  rank.  Then  children  suddenly  ap- 
peared, basket-laden,  strewing  the  street  with  flowers  and 
cut  fragments  of  colored  paper  until  the  rough  paving- 
stones  all  but  disappeared  beneath  an  irregular  mosaic  of 
red  and  green  and  blue.  The  bells  of  neighboring  churches 
sent  forth  with  common  accord  a  joyous  peal  which  was 
echoed  by  those  of  a  monastery  on  the  farther  side  of  my 
hotel,  and  through  the  gate  of  which  I  had  often  seen  the 
poor  —  such  beggars  as  Sterne  depicted  —  going  in  for 
their  daily  dole  of  bread  and  soup.  From  afar  came  the 
boom  and  clang  of  music,  blended  with  the  deep  rich  notes 
of  chanting,  as  the  head  of  a  procession  came  in  sight. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the  town  could  have 
contained  so  many  girls  —  young,  well  dressed  and  pretty, 
as  had  been,  by  ecclesiastical  influence,  or  by  social  con- 
siderations, induced  to  walk  in  that  procession.  They 
were  of  all  ages,  from  the  lisping  child  ill  at  ease  in  her 
starched  frock  and  white  shoes,  to  the  tall  maiden,  carry- 
ing a  heavy  flag  with  the  air  of  a  Joan  of  Arc ;  but  there  they 
were  —  squadrons  of  girls  in  white ;  bevies  of  girls  in  blue; 
companies  of  girls  in  pink  or  lilac  or  maize  color;  all 
either  actually  bearing  some  emblem  or  badge,  or  feigning 
to  assist  the  progress  of  some  shrine  or  reliquary,  or  colossal 

211 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

crucifix,  or  group  of  images,  by  grasping  the  end  of  one  of 
the  hundreds  of  bright  ribbons  that  were  attached  to  these 
the  central  features  and  rallying  points  of  the  show.  On, 
on  they  streamed,  walking  demurely  to  the  musical  bas- 
soon and  serpent  cornet  and  drum,  of  clashing  cymbal  and 
piping  clarionet,  while  the  musicians,  collected  from  many 
a  parish  of  city  and  suburbs,  beat  and  blew  their  best. 
Anon  the  music  was  hushed,  and  nothing  broke  the  silence 
save  the  deep  voices  of  the  chanting  priests,  and  then  arose 
the  shrill  singing  of  many  children  as  school  after  school, 
well  drilled  and  officered  by  nuns  or  friars,  as  the  case 
might  be,  —  marched  on  to  swell  the  apparently  inter- 
minable array. 

A  marvellous  effect  was  there  of  color  and  grouping, 
and  a  rare  display  too  of  treasures  ecclesiastic  that  seldom 
see  the  light  of  day.  There  is  nothing  now  in  the  market, 
were  an  empress  the  bidder,  to  equal  that  old  point  lace 
just  drawn  forth  from  the  oaken  chest  in  which  it  usually 
reposes,  and  which  was  the  pious  work  of  supple  fingers 
that  crumbled  to  dust  two  centuries  ago.  Where  can  you 
find  such  goldsmith's  work  as  yonder  casket,  that  in  bygone 
ages  was  consecrated  as  the  receptacle  of  some  wonder- 
working relic;  or  see  such  a  triumph  of  art  as  that 
jewelled  chalice,  the  repousse  work  of  which  was  surely 
wrought  by  fairy  hammers,  so  light  and  delicate  is  the 
tracery? 

...  On,  and  onwards  still,  as  if  the  whole  feminine 
population  of  the  kingdom  —  between  the  ages  of  seven, 
say,  and  seven-and-twenty  —  had  been  pressed  into  the 
service,  swept  the  procession.  Fresh  bands  of  music,  new 
companies  of  chanting  priests,  of  deep-voiced  deacons 
whose  scarlet  robes  were  all  but  hidden  by  costly  lace, 

212 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

awakened  the  echoes  of  the  quiet  streets.  Chariots  with 
bleeding  hearts  conspicuously  borne  aloft;  chariots  with 
gigantic  crucifixes;  chariots  resplendent  as  the  sun,  with 
lavish  display  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  tenanted  by  venerated 
images,  went  lumbering  by. 

And  still  the  children  sang  and  the  diapason  of  the 
chanting  rolled  out  like  solemn  thunder  on  the  air,  while 
at  every  instant  some  novel  feature  of  the  ever  varying 
spectacle  claimed  its  meed  of  praise.  Prettiest,  perhaps, 
of  all  the  sights  there  was  a  little  —  a  very  little  —  child,  a 
beautiful  boy  with  golden  curls,  fantastically  clad  in  rai- 
ment of  camel's  hair,  who  carried  a  tiny  cross  and  led 
by  a  blue  ribbon  a  white  lamb,  highly  trained,  no  doubt, 
since  it  followed  with  perfect  docility  and  exemplary  meek- 
ness. A  more  charming  model  of  innocent  infancy  than 
this  youthful  representative  of  John  the  Baptist,  as  with 
filleted  head,  small  limbs  seemingly  bare,  and  blue  eyes 
that  never  wandered  to  the  right  or  left,  he  slowly  stepped 
on,  none  of  the  great  Italian  masters  ever  drew.  .  .  . 

The  spectators,  I  noticed,  behaved  very  variously. 
There  were  esprit  forts  clearly  among  the  bourgeoisie 
looking  on,  who  seemed  coldly  indifferent  to  what  they 
saw,  if  not  actually  hostile,  and  who  declined  to  doff  their 
hats  as  the  holiest  images  and  the  most  hallowed  em- 
blems were  borne  by.  But  the  peasants  one  and  all  bared 
their  heads  in  reverence;  and  the  milk-woman,  with  her 
cart  and  her  cans,  had  pulled  her  rosary,  with  its  dark 
beads  and  brass  medals,  out  of  her  capacious  pocket 
and  was  telling  her  beads  as  devoutly  as  her  own  great- 
grandmother  could  have  done. 

Some  rivalry  there  may  possibly  have  been  between  the 
different  parishes  which  had  sent  forth  their  boys  and  girls, 
213 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

their  bands  and  flags,  and  the  jealously  guarded  treasures 
from  crypt  and  chancel  and  sacristy  to  swell  the  pomp  — 
Saint  Josse,  with  its  famed  old  church,  to  which  pilgrims 
resort  even  from  the  banks  of  Loire  and  Rhine,  could  not 
permit  itself  to  be  outshone  by  fashionable  Saint  Jacques, 
where  it  is  easy  for  a  bland  abbe,  who  knows  the  world 
of  the  salons,  to  collect  subscriptions  that  are  less  missed 
by  the  givers  than  a  lost  bet  on  the  races,  or  a  luckless 
stake  at  baccarat.  And  Saint  Ursula,  grim  patroness  of 
a  network  of  ancient  streets,  where  aristocratic  mansions 
of  the  mediaeval  type  are  elbowed  by  mean  shops  and 
hucksters'  stalls,  yet  tries  to  avoid  the  disgrace  of  being 
overcrowded  by  moneyed,  pushing  parvenu  All  Saints, 
where  tall  new  houses,  radiant  with  terra  cotta  and  plate 
glass,  shelter  the  rich  proprietors  of  the  still  taller  brick 
chimneys  that  dominate  a  mass  of  workmen's  dwellings 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  parish.  But  such  a  spirit  of  emu- 
lation only  serves  to  enhance  the  glitter  of  the  show. 

And  now  the  clashing  cymbals,  and  the  boom  and  bray 
of  the  brass  instruments  lately  at  their  loudest,  are  hushed, 
that  the  rich  thunder  of  the  chanting  may  be  the  better 
heard,  and  the  spectators  press  forward,  or  stand  on  tiptoe, 
to  peer  over  the  shoulders  of  those  in  the  foremost  rank. 
Something  was  plainly  to  be  looked  for  that  was  regarded 
as  the  central  pivot,  or  kernel,  of  the  show.  And  here  it 
comes,  —  surrounded  by  chanting  priests,  and  preceded  by 
scarlet  capped  and  white  robed  acolytes  swinging  weighty 
censers,  under  his  canopy  of  state  borne  over  his  head  by 
four  stronger  men,  some  dignitary  of  the  Church  goes  by. 
He  wears  no  mitre  —  not  even  that  of  a  bishop  in  partihus 
infidelium  —  and  therefore  I  conjecture  him  to  be  a  dean. 
He  is  at  any  rate  splendid  as  jewels,  and  gold  embroider- 
214 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

ies,  and  antique  lace  can  make  him;  and  he  walks  be- 
neath his  gorgeous  baldaquin  of  gold  and  purple,  chanting 
too,  but  in  a  thin  reedy  voice,  for  he  is  old,  and  his  hair, 
silver  white,  contrasts  somewhat  plaintively  with  the  mag- 
nificence that  environs  him  as  amidst  clouds  of  steaming 
incense  he  totters  on.  The  bystanders  begin  to  disperse, 
for  it  is  getting  late  and  cold,  and  the  shadows  are  begin- 
ning to  creep  from  darkling  nooks  and  corners,  and  the 
spectacle  is  over.  The  procession  is  out  of  sight,  and 
fainter  grow  the  sounds  of  the  music  and  of  the  chanting. 
The  last  spectator  to  depart  was  a  young  monk,  with  a 
pale  face  and  dreamy  eyes,  clad  in  the  brown  robes  of  his 
order,  who  during  all  this  time  had  knelt  on  the  cold  stones 
at  the  monastery  gate,  his  lips  moving  as  his  lean  fingers 
grasped  his  rosary,  and  an  expression  of  rapt  devotion  on 
his  wan  countenance,  that  would  have  done  credit  to  some 
hermit  saint  of  a  thousand  years  ago  when  the  crown  of 
martyrdom  was  easy  to  find. 

From  All  the  Year  Round 

Christmas  at  the  Cape      ^;^     ^;^     ^r^y     ^>     ^c::y 

\/'OUR  Christmas  comes  with  holly  leaves 
-*-    And  snow  about  your  doors  and  eaves; 
Our  lighted  windows,  open  wide, 
Let  in  our  summer  Christmas  tide; 
And  where  the  drifting  moths  may  go  — 
Behold  our  tiny  flakes  of  snow ; 

But  carol,  carol  in  the  cold; 

And  carol,  carol  as  ye  may,  — 
We  sing  the  merry  songs  of  old 

As  merrily  on  Christmas  Day. 
215 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Your  hills  are  wrapped  in  rainy  cloud, 
Your  sea  in  anger  roars  aloud; 
But  here  our  hills  are  veiled  with  haze 
In  harmonies  of  blues  and  grays; 
The  waters  of  two  oceans  meet 
With  friendly  murmurs  by  our  feet; 

But  carol,  carol,  Christmas  Waits, 

And  carol,  carol,  as  ye  may,  — 
The  Crickets  by  our  doors  and  gates 

Sing  in  the  gr^ce  of  Christmas  Day. 

The  rain  and  sunshine  of  the  Cape 
Lie  folded  in  the  ripening  grape. 
And  Stellenbosch  and  Drakenstein, 
With  bounteous  orchard,  field  of  vine. 
And  every  spot  that  we  pass  by  — 
Lie  burnished  'neath  our  Christmas  sky ; 

So  carol,  carol  in  your  snow 

And  carol,  carol  as  ye  may,  — 
We  carol  'mid  our  blooms  ablow. 

The  grace  of  Summer's  Christmas  Day. 

John  Rxjncie 

The  ''Good  Night"  in  Spain    -^     ^^    -^^^    -s^ 

^  T  TRO  is  he  that  has  seen  a  Nativity  and  has  not  felt  it  ? 
^  *  Who  has  not  found  himself  in  his  own  home,  in  hi: 
own  domain,  there  in  that  fantastic  world  of  cork  and 
gummed  paper,  with  its  shadowy  caves,  where  a  saintly 
anchorite  prays  before  a  crucifix  —  sweet  and  simple  an- 
achronism, like  that  of  the  hunter  who  in  a  thicket  of  rose- 
216 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

mary  shrubs  aims  his  gun  at  a  partridge  large  as  a  stork 
perched  on  the  tower  of  a  hermitage,  or  that  of  the  smug- 
gler with  his  Spanish  cloak  and  slouch  hat,  who  with  a  load 
of  tobacco  hides  behind  a  paper  rock  to  give  free  passage  to 
the  three  kings  journeying  in  all  their  glory  along  the  lofty 
summits  of  those  cork  Alps?  Who  does  not  feel  an  inex- 
plicable pleasure  at  seeing  that  little  donkey,  laden  with  fire- 
wood, passing  over  a  proud  bridge  of  paper  stone  ?  And 
that  meadow  of  milled  green  baize  in  which  feed  so  tran- 
quilly those  little  white  lambs !  Does  not  that  hoar  frost  so 
well  imitated  with  steel  filings  turn  you  cold?  Do  you  not 
take  comfort  in  the  heat  of  that  ruddy  bonfire  which  the 
shepherds  are  kindling  to  warm  the  Holy  Child?  Who 
is  not  startled  to  discover,  under  the  strips  of  glass  which 
represent  so  well  a  frozen  river,  the  fish,  the  tortoises,  the 
crabs,  reposing  with  all  ease  upon  a  bed  of  golden  sand  and 
swollen  to  dimensions  unknown  to  naturalists?  Here  is  a 
crab  under  whose  claws  can  pass  an  eel,  his,  neighbor,  as 
under  the  arch  of  a  bridge.  Here  is  a  colossal  rat  regard- 
ing with  a  bullying  air  a  diminutive  and  peaceful  kitten. 
Over  yonder  a  donkey  is  disputing  with  a  rabbit  about  the 
respective  magnificence  of  their  ears,  which  are,  in  fact, 
of  the  same  size,  and  a  bull  is  holding  a  similar  discussion, 
on  the  subject  of  horns,  with  a  snail,  while  a  stout  duck 
refuses  to  yield  the  honors  to  a  rickety  swan.  And  these 
birds  of  all  colors,  gladdening  that  profound  forest  of 
little  evergreens  which  forms  the  background  of  this  en- 
chanting scene,  would  you  not  think  that  they  had  gathered 
here  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth?  Does  it  not 
make  you  happy  to  see  the  shepherds  dance  ?  And,  above 
all,  do  you  not  adore  with  tender  reverence  the  Divine 
Mystery  contained  in  that  humble  porch  with  its  thatch  of 
217 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

straw  and,  in  its  depths,  a  halo  or  glory  of  light?  I  say 
it  frankly,  —  on  that  holy  and  merry  Christmas  Eve,  all 
these  things  seem  to  me  to  live  and  feel ;  these  little  figures 
of  clay,  shaped  by  clumsy  hands,  placed  there  with  such 
faith  and  such  devotion,  seem  to  me  to  receive  breath  and 
being  from  the  joy  and  enthusiasrn  that  reign.  The  star 
which  guides  the  Magi,  tinsel  and  glass  though  it  is,  seems 
to  me  to  shine  and  shoot  forth  rays.  The  aureole  sur- 
rounding the  manger  where  the  Holy  Child  is  lying  seems 
to  glow  not  as  a  transparency  with  candles  placed  behind 
it,  but  with  a  reflection  of  celestial  light.  The  tambour- 
ines and  drums  and  songs  give  out  melodies  as  simple  and 
as  pleasing  as  if  they  were  echoes  of  those  heard  by  the 
shepherds  on  that  first  blest  Christmas  Eve. 

Could  there  be  a  festival  more  joyous,  more  natural, 
more  tender  in  appeal  and  at  the  same  time  more  exalted 
in  significance  —  the  birth  of  the  Child  in  the  rude  stable, 
with  only  shepherds  to  wish  him  joy;  innocence,  poverty, 
simplicity,  the  very  foundations  of  the  magnificent  struc- 
ture of  Christianity?  Well  may  children  and  the  poor 
keep  a  merry  Christmas.  They  bring  to  God  the  gifts 
which  please  him  best,  —  purity,  faith  and  love.  O, 
night,  well  called  in  Spain  ''The  Good  Night,"  blither 
than  the  carnival  and  holy  as  Holy  Week  itself ! 
From  Holy  Night,  by  Fernan  Caballero.    Translated 

by  Katharine  Lee  Bates 

Christmas  in  Rome    ^^>    ^;^     ^::^     ^:::y    ^:iy    ^^^ 

"Xl^  THAT  is  the  meaning  of   our   English   Christmas? 

^  *      What  makes  it  seem  so  truly  Northern,  national, 

and  homely,  that  we  do  not  like  to  keep  the  feast  upon 

218 


When  All  the  World  is   Kin 

a  foreign  shore?  These  questions  grew  upon  me  as  I 
stood  one  Advent  afternoon  beneath  the  Dome  of  Flor- 
ence. .  .  . 

The  same  thought  pursued  me  as  I  drove  to  Rome  by 
Siena,  still  and  brown,  uplifted  mid  her  russet  hills  and 
wilderness  of  rolling  plain;  by  Chiusi,  with  its  sepulchral 
city  of  a  dead  and  unknown  people;  through  the  chest- 
nut forests  of  the  Apennines;  by  Orvieto's  rock,  Viterbo's 
fountains,  and  the  oak-grown  solitudes  of  the  Ciminian 
heights,  from  which  one  looks  across  the  broad  Lake  of 
Bolsena  and  the  Roman  plain.  Brilliant  sunlight,  like 
that  of  a  day  in  late  September,  shone  upon  the  landscape, 
and  I  thought  —  Can  this  be  Christmas?  Are  they  bring- 
ing mistletoe  and  holly  on  the  country  carts  into  the  towns 
in  far-off  England?  Is  it  clear  and  frosty  there,  with  the 
tramp  of  heels  upon  the  flag,  or  snowing  silently,  or  foggy, 
with  a  round  red  sun  and  cries  of  warning  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets? 

I  reached  Rome  on  Christmas-eve  in  time  to  hear  mid- 
night services  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  and  St.  John  Lateran, 
to  breathe  the  dust  of  decayed  shrines,  to  wonder  at  dot- 
ing cardinals  begrimed  with  snuff,  and  to  resent  the  open- 
mouthed  bad  taste  of  my  countrymen,  who  made  a  mockery 
of  these  palsy-stricken  ceremonies.  Nine  cardinals  going 
to  sleep,  nine  train-bearers  talking  scandal,  twenty  huge, 
handsome  Switzers  in  the  dress  devised  by  Michael  Angelo, 
some  ushers,  a  choir  caged  off  by  gilded  railings,  the  in- 
solence and  eagerness  of  polyglot  tourists,  plenty  of  wax 
candles  dripping  on  people's  heads,  and  a  continual  nasal 
drone  proceeding  from  the  gilded  cage,  out  of  which  were 
caught  at  intervals  these  words,  and  these  only  —  "Saecula 
Saeculorum,  amen."  Such  was  the  celebrated  Sistine 
219 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

service.  The  chapel  blazed  with  light,  and  very  strange 
did  Michael  Angelo's  Last  Judgment,  his  Sibyls,  and  his 
Prophets  appear  upon  the  roof  and  wall  above  this  motley 
and  unmeaning  crowd. 

Next  morning  I  put  on  my  dress-clothes  and  white  tie 
and  repaired,  with  groups  of  Englishmen  similarly  at- 
tired, and  of  Englishwomen  in  black  crape  (the  regulation 
costume),  to  St.  Peter's.  It  was  a  glorious  and  cloudless 
morning;  sunbeams  streamed  in  columns  from  the  south- 
ern windows,  falling  on  the  vast  space  full  of  soldiers  and 
a  mingled  mass  of  every  kind  of  people.  Up  the  nave 
stood  double  files  of  the  pontifical  guard.  Monks  and 
nuns  mixed  with  the  Swiss  cuirassiers  and  halberds. 
Contadini  crowded  round  the  sacred  images,  and  especially 
round  the  toe  of  St.  Peter.  I  saw  many  mothers  lift  their 
swaddled  babies  up  to  kiss  it.  Valets  of  cardinals,  with 
the  invariable  red  umbrellas,  hung  about  side  chapels  and 
sacristies.  Purple-mantled  monsignori,  like  emperor  but- 
terflies, floated  down  the  aisles  from  sunlight  into  shadow. 
Movement,  color,  and  the  stir  of  expectation  made  the 
church  alive.  We  showed  our  dress-clothes  to  the  guard, 
were  admitted  within  their  ranks,  and  solemnly  walked 
up  towards  the  dome.  There,  under  its  broad  canopy, 
stood  the  altar,  glittering  with  gold  and  candles.  The 
choir  was  carpeted  and  hung  with  scarlet.  Two  magnifi- 
cent thrones  rose  ready  for  the  Pope.  Guards  of  honor, 
soldiers,  attaches,  and  the  elite  of  the  residents  and  visitors 
in  Rome  were  scattered  in  groups,  picturesquely  varied  by 
ecclesiastics  of  all  orders  and  degrees.  At  ten  a  stirring 
took  place  near  the  great  west  door.  It  opened,  and  we 
saw  a  procession  of  the  Pope  and  his  cardinals.  Before 
him  marched  the  singers  and  the  blowers  of  the  silver 
220 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

trumpets,  making  the  most  liquid  melody.  Then  came 
his  Cap  of  Maintenance  and  three  tiaras;  then  a  company 
of  mitred  priests;  next  the  cardinals  in  scarlet;  and  last, 
aloft  beneath  a  canopy  upon  the  shoulders  of  men,  and 
flanked  by  the  mystic  fans,  advanced  the  Pope  himself, 
swaying  to  and  fro  like  a  Lama  or  an  Aztec  king.  Still  the 
trumpets  blew  most  silverly,  and  still  the  people  knelt ;  and 
as  he  came,  we  knelt  and  had  his  blessing.  Then  he  took 
his  state  and  received  homage.  After  this  the  choir  began 
to  sing  a  mass  of  Palestrina's,  and  the  deacons  robed  the 
Pope.  Marvellous  putting  on  and  taking  off  of  robes  and 
tiaras  and  mitres  ensued,  during  which  there  was  much 
bowing  and  praying  and  burning  of  incense.  At  last, 
when  he  had  reached  the  highest  stage  of  sacrificial  sanc- 
tity, he  proceeded  to  the  altar,  waited  on  by  cardinals  and 
bishops.  Having  censed  it  carefully,  he  took  a  higher 
throne  and  divested  himself  of  part  of  his  robes.  Then 
the  mass  went  on  in  earnest  till  the  moment  of  consecra- 
tion, when  it  paused,  the  Pope  descended  from  his  throne, 
passed  down  the  choir,  and  reached  the  altar.  Every  one 
knelt;  the  shrill  bell  tinkled;  the  silver  trumpets  blew; 
the  air  became  sick  and  heavy  with  incense,  so  that  sun 
and  candle-light  swooned  in  an  atmosphere  of  odorous 
cloud-wreaths.  The  whole  church  trembled,  hearing  the 
strange  subtle  music  vibrate  in  the  dome,  and  seeing 
the  Pope  with  his  own  hands  lift  Christ's  body  from  the 
altar  and  present  it  to  the  people.  An  old  parish  priest, 
pilgrim  from  some  valley  of  the  Apennines,  who  knelt  beside 
me,  cried  and  quivered  with  excess  of  adoration.  The 
great  tombs  around,  the  sculptured  saints  and  angels,  the 
dome,  the  volumes  of  light  and  incense  and  unfamiliar 
melody,  the  hierarchy  ministrant,  the  white  and  central 

221 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

figure  of  the  Pope,  the  multitude,  made  up  an  overpower- 
ing scene. 

John  Addington  Symonds 

Christmas  in  Burgundy     -^^     ^::b^     ^y     ^:>     -<:> 

"Tj^VERY  year  at  the  approach  of  Advent,  people  re- 
-'— '  fresh  their  memories,  clear  their  throats,  and  begin 
preluding,  in  the  long  evenings  by  the  fireside,  those  carols 
whose  invariable  and  eternal  theme  is  the  coming  of  the 
Messiah.  They  take  from  old  closets  pamphlets,  little 
collections  begrimed  with  dust  and  smoke,  to  which  the 
press,  and  sometimes  the  pen,  has  consigned  these  songs; 
and  as  soon  as  the  first  Sunday  of  Advent  sounds,  they 
gossip,  they  gad  about,  they  sit  together  by  the  fireside, 
sometimes  at  one  house,  sometimes  at  another,  taking  turns 
in  paying  for  the  chestnuts  and  white  wine,  but  singing  with 
one  common  voice  the  grotesque  praises  of  the  Little  Jesus. 
There  are  very  few  villages  even,  which,  during  all  the 
evenings  of  Advent,  do  not  hear  some  of  these  curious 
canticles  shouted  in  their  streets,  to  the  nasal  drone  of 
bagpipes.  In  this  case  the  minstrel  comes  as  a  reinforce- 
ment to  the  singers  at  the  fireside ;  he  brings  and  adds  his 
dose  of  joy  (spontaneous  or  mercenary,  it  matters  little 
which)  to  the  joy  which  breathes  around  the  hearth-stone; 
and  when  the  voices  vibrate  and  resound,  one  voice  more  is 
always  welcome.  There,  it  is  not  the  purity  of  the  notes 
which  makes  the  concert,  but  the  quantity,  —  non  qualitas, 
sed  quantitas;  then  (to  finish  at  once  with  the  minstrel) 
when  the  Saviour  has  at  length  been  born  in  the  manger, 
and  the  beautiful  Christmas  Eve  is  passed,  the  rustic  piper 
makes  his  round  among  the  houses,  where  every  one  compli- 

222 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

ments  and  thanks  him,  and,  moreover,  gives  him  in  small 
coin  the  price  of  the  shrill  notes  with  which  he  has  enlivened 
the  evening  entertainments. 

More  or  less  until  Christmas  Eve,  all  goes  on  in  this 
way  among  our  devout  singers,  with  the  difference  of  some 
gallons  of  wine  or  some  hundreds  of  chestnuts.  But  this 
famous  eve  once  come,  the  scale  is  pitched  upon  a  higher 
key;  the  closing  evening  must  be  a  memorable  one.  The 
toilet  is  begun  at  nightfall ;  then  comes  the  hour  of  supper, 
admonishing  divers  appetites;  and  groups,  as  numerous 
as  possible,  are  formed  to  take  together  this  comfortable 
evening  repast.  The  supper  finished,  a  circle  gathers 
around  the  hearth,  which  is  arranged  and  set  in  order  this 
evening  after  a  particular  fashion,  and  which  at  a  later  hour 
of  the  night  is  to  become  the  object  of  special  interest  to  the 
children.  On  the  burning  brands  an  enormous  log  has  been 
placed.  This  lo^  assuredly  does  not  change  its  nature,  but 
it  changes  its  name  during  this  evening:  it  is  called  the 
Suche  (the  Yule-log).  ''Look  you,"  say  they  to  the  children, 
"  if  you  are  good  this  evening,  Noel "  (for  with  children  one 
must  always  personify)  "will  rain  down  sugar-plums  in  the 
night."  And  the  children  sit  demurely,  keeping  as  quiet 
as  their  turbulent  little  natures  will  permit.  The  groups  of 
older  persons,  not  always  as  orderly  as  the  children,  seize 
this  good  opportunity  to  surrender  themselves  with  merry 
hearts  and  boisterous  voices  to  the  chanted  worship  of  the 
miraculous  Noel.  For  this  final  solemnity,  they  have  kept 
the  most  powerful,  the  most  enthusiastic,  the  most  electrify- 
ing carols.  Noel !  Noel !  Noel !  this  magic  word  resounds 
on  all  sides;  it  seasons  every  sauce,  it  is  served  up  with 
every  course.  Of  the  thousands  of  canticles  which  are 
heard  on  this  famous  eve,  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred  begin 
223 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

and  end  with  this  word ;  which  is,  one  may  say,  their  Alpha 
and  Omega,  their  crown  and  footstool.  This  last  evening, 
the  merry-making  is  prolonged.  Instead  of  retiring  at  ten 
or  eleven  o'clock,  as  is  generally  done  on  all  the  preceding 
evenings,  they  wait  for  the  stroke  of  midnight:  this  word 
sufficiently  proclaims  to  what  ceremony  they  are  going  to 
repair.  For  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bells 
have  been  calling  the  faithful  with  a  triple-bobmajor; 
and  each  one,  furnished  with  a  little  taper  streaked  with 
various  colors  (the  Christmas  Candle)  goes  through  the 
crowded  streets,  where  the  lanterns  are  dancing  like 
Will-o'-the-Wisps,  at  the  impatient  summons  of  the  multi- 
tudinous chimes.  It  is  the  Midnight  Mass.  Once  inside 
the  church,  they  hear  with  more  or  less  piety  the  Mass,  em- 
blematic of  the  coming  of  the  Messiah.  Then  in  tumult  and 
great  haste  they  return  homeward,  always  in  numerous 
groups;  they  salute  the  Yule-log ;  they  pay  homage  to  the 
hearth;  they  sit  down  at  table;  and,  amid  songs  which 
reverberate  louder  than  ever,  make  this  meal  of  after- 
Christmas,  so  long  looked  for,  so  cherished,  so  joyous,  so 
noisy,  and  which  it  has  been  thought  fit  to  call,  we  hardly 
know  why,  Rossignon.  The  supper  eaten  at  nightfall  is  no 
impediment,  as  you  may  imagine,  to  the  appetite's  return- 
ing', above  all,  if  the  going  to  and  from  church  has  made  the 
devout  eaters  feel  some  little  shafts  of  the  sharp  and  biting 
north-wind.  Rossignon  then  goes  on  merrily,  —  sometimes 
far  into  the  morning  hours;  but,  nevertheless,  gradually 
throats  grow  hoarse,  stomachs  are  filled,  the  Yule-log  burns 
out,  and  at  last  the  hour  arrives  when  each  one,  as  best  he 
may,  regains  his  domicile  and  his  bed,  and  puts  with  himself 
between  the  sheets  the  material  for  a  good  sore-throat,  or  a 
good  indigestion,  for  the  morrow.  Previous  to  this,  care 
224 


When  All  the   World  is   Kin 

has  been  taken  to  place  in  the  slippers,  or  wooden  shoes  of 
the  children,  the  sugar-plums,  which  shall  be  for  them,  on 
their  waking,  the  welcome  fruits  of  the  Christmas  log. 
In  the  Glossary,  the  Suche,  or  Yule-log,  is  thus  defined :  — 
"This  is  a  huge  log,  which  is  placed  on  the  fire  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  which  in  Burgundy  is  called,  on  this 
account,  lai  Suche  de  Noel.  Then  the  father  of  the  family, 
particularly  among  the  middle  classes,  sings  solemnly 
Christmas  carols  with  his  wife  and  children,  the  smallest 
of  whom  he  sends  into  the  corner  to  pray  that  the  Yule-log 
may  bear  him  some  sugar-plums.  Meanwhile,  little  parcels 
of  them  are  placed  under  each  end  of  the  log,  and  the 
children  come  and  pick  them  up,  believing,  in  good  faith, 
that  the  great  log  has  borne  them." 

M.  Fertiault.   Translated  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow 


Christmas  in  Germany    <^     ^^     ^;:^     ^r^y     ^;> 

Berlin,  December  25,  1871 
npO-DAY  is  Christmas  day,  and  I  have  thought  much  of 
-*"  you  all  at  home,  and  have  wondered  if  you've  been 
having  an  apathetic  time  as  usual.  I  think  we  often  spend 
Christmas  in  a  most  shocking  fashion  in  America,  and  I 
mean  to  revolutionize  all  that  when  I  get  back.  So  long 
a  time  in  Germany  has  taught  me  better.  Here  it  is  a 
season  of  universal  joy,  and  everybody  enters  into  it.  Last 
night  we  had  a  Christmas  tree  at  the  S.'s,  as  we  always  do. 
We  went  there  at  half  past  six,  and  it  was  the  prettiest  thing 
to  see  in  every  house,  nearly,  a  tree  just  lighted,  or  in 
process  of  being  so.  As  a  separate  family  lives  on  each 
floor,  often  in  one  house  would  be  three  trees,  one  above  the 
Q  225 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

other,  in  the  front  rooms.  The  curtains  are  always  drawn 
up,  to  give  the  passers-by  the  benefit  of  it.  They  don't 
make  a  fearful  undertaking  of  having  a  Christmas  tree  here, 
as  we  do  in  America,  and  so  they  are  attainable  by  every- 
body. The  tree  is  small,  to  begin  with,  and  nothing  is  put 
on  it  except  the  tapers  and  bonbons.  It  is  fixed  on  a  small 
stand  in  the  centre  of  a  large  square  table  covered  with  a 
white  cloth,  and  each  person's  presents  are  arranged  in  a 
separate  pile  around  it.  The  tree  is  only  lighted  for  the 
sake  of  beauty,  and  for  the  air  of  festivity  it  throws  over  the 
thing.  —  After  a  crisp  walk  in  the  moonlight  (which  I 
performed  in  the  style  of  "  Johnny-look-up-in-the-air,"  for 
I  was  engaged  in  staring  into  house-windows,  so  far  as  it 
was  practicable),  we  sat  down  to  enjoy  a  cup  of  tea  and  a 
piece  of  cake.  I  had  just  begun  my  second  cup,  when, 
Presto!  the  parlour  doors  flew  open,  and  there  stood  the 
little  green  tree,  blossoming  out  into  lights,  and  throwing 
its  gleams  over  the  well-laden  table.  There  was  a  general 
scramble  and  a  search  for  one's  own  pile,  succeeded  by  deep 
silence  and  suspense  while  we  opened  the  papers.  Such  a 
hand  shaking  and  embracing  and  thanking  as  followed! 
concluding  with  the  satisfactory  conviction  that  we  each 
had  "just  what  we  wanted."  Germans  do  not  despise  the 
utilitarian  in  their  Christmas  gifts,  as  we  do,  but,  between 
these  and  their  birthday  offerings,  expect  to  be  set  up  for  the 
rest  of  the  year  in  the  necessaries  of  life  as  well  as  in  its 
superfluities.  Presents  of  stockings,  underclothes,  dresses, 
handkerchiefs,  soaps  —  nothing  comes  amiss.  And  every 
one  must  give  to  every  one  else.     That  is  LAW. 

Amy  Fay  in  Music-Study  in  Germany. 


226 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 


Christmas  Dinner  in  a  Clipper's  Fo'c'sle  ^^     ^^:^ 

r^HRISTMAS  DAY  we  were  running  before  a  fine 
^^  westerly  gale  for  the  mouth  of  the  channel.  We  had 
been  hove  to  for  forty-eight  hours;  for,  though  we  had 
sighted  Fayal  in  the  Azores,  the  Scotchman  was  afraid  to 
run  because  the  sun  was  obscured  and  he  couldn't  get  an 
observation.  So  he  lay  under  lower  main  topsail  and 
fore  topmast  staysail,  and  let  the  fine  fair  wind  blow  away 
while  he  waited  for  the  sun  to  come  out  so  he  could  find  out 
where  he  was.  Not  much  like  Captain  Hurlburt  in  the 
old  Tanjore.  Early  Christmas  morning,  a  little  topsail 
schooner —  one  of  the  fleet  of  clippers  known  as  "Western 
Island  Fruiters"  —  came  flying  along  before  the  wind 
like  a  little  butterfly,  and,  seeing  the  big  ship  hove  to,  I  sup- 
pose they  thought  there  must  be  something  the  matter  with 
her;  so  they  kindly  ran  under  our  stern  and  hailed.  After 
finding  out  where  we  were  from,  and  where  bound,  the 
skipper  asked  us  what  was  the  matter. 

"Nothing,"  said  Russell. 

"Well,"  said  the  schooner  skipper,  "what  are  ye  hove  to 
for?" 

Russell  told  him  he  wanted  to  get  a  "sight"  to  find  his 
position. 

"FoUer  me,  you  blahsted  fool,"  said  the  skipper,  and 
putting  up  his  helm  he  left  us.  It  must  have  been  the  sight 
of  that  little  schooner  running  so  confidently  that  shamed 
him,  for  he  squared  away  and  made  sail  at  once.  The  cook 
had  killed  the  pig  the  day  before,  so  we  were  to  have  fresh 
meat,  that  is,  baked  pork  and  plum  duff,  with  sauce,  for  our 
Christmas  dinner.  Although  I  could  not  eat  much  of  any- 
227 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

thing,  I  looked  forward  with  great  anticipations  to  the 
fresh  meat  which  I  was  anxious  to  taste.  When  the  watch 
was  called  at  half -past  eleven,  she  was  running  dead  before, 
and  rolling  both  rails  under;  for  iron  ships  are  proverbially 
wet.  Some  call  them  "diving  bells."  Three  men  went 
to  the  galley:  one  for  the  duff,  one  for  the  pork,  and  the 
other  for  the  duff  sauce. 

Thsy  got  their  grub  and  started  forward.  Just  as  they 
got  nicely  clear  of  the  deck-house,  where  there  was  nothing 
to  protect  them,  she  gave  a  heavy  roll  to  port,  scooping  up 
several  tons  of  water  over  the  rail ;  then  she  rolled  as  far  to 
starboard,  doing  the  same  trick  again.  And  now  the  decks 
being  full  of  water  level  with  both  rails,  a  big  sea  raised  her 
stern  high  in  air.  The  fellow  who  had  the  pork  yelled  for 
somebody  to  open  the  door,  and  somebody  did,  with  the 
result  that  as  her  stern  went  up  the  three  men  with  the  grub 
and  a  tidal  wave  of  salt  water  all  came  into  the  fore- 
castle together. 

Oh,  what  a  merry  Christmas  that  was !  The  whole 
watch  were  sitting  on  their  chests  waiting  for  their  dinner, 
or  perhaps  some  were  not  entirely  dressed  when  that  green 
sea  came  in.  It  washed  all  the  men  and  chests  up  into  the 
eyes  of  her,  and  drowned  out  all  the  lower  bunks.  The  pork 
and  duff  went  somewhere.  The  sauce,  of  course,  disap- 
peared entirely.  Every  man  was  soaked,  and  so  was  every 
rag  of  clothing  belonging  to  the  whole  watch,  except  the 
bedding  in  the  upper  bunks,  and  that  was  pretty  well  wet 
from  the  splashing.  Fortunately,  I  had  the  upper  bunk 
next  the  door,  so  that  it  all  went  by  me,  and  I  expected 
the  splashing  caused  by  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the  water 
by  the  bows.  After  the  flood  had  subsided,  there  came 
a  jawing  match. 

228 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

"Who  hollered  to  open  that  door?"  "No."  "But 
what  bloody  fool  opened  it?" 

So  and  so.  ^ 

"You're  a  liar!" 

I  thought  there  would  be  a  general  row,  but  they  were  too 
wet  and  too  cold  and  disheartened  to  fight  about  anything. 
They  pulled  their  chests  out  from  under  each  other,  satisfied 
themselves  that  they  didn't  own  a  dry  stitch  for  a  change,  and 
then,  fishing  out  the  pork  and  duff  from  under  the  bunks, 
threw  the  latter  overboard,  and  made  a  sorry  Christmas 
dinner  on  semi-saturated  fresh  pork  and  hardtack. 

Herbert  Elliott  Hamblen  in  On  Many  Seas 


Christmas  in  Jail     ^^     <:::^     ^^     ^:;^     ^::>     ^::^ 

"  "p  ICHARD  MARSTON,  I  charge  you  with  unlawfully 
■*"^  taking,  steahng,  and  carrying  away,  in  company  with 
others,  one  thousand  head  of  mixed  cattle,  more  or  less,  the 
property  of  one  Walter  Hood,  of  Outer  Back,  Momberah, 
in  or  about  the  month  of  June  last." 

"All  right ;  why  don't  you  make  it  a  few  more  while  you're 
about  it?" 

"That'll  do,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head;  "you  decline  to 
say  anything.  Well,  I  can't  exactly  wish  you  a  merry  Christ- 
mas—  fancy  this  being  Christmas  Eve,  by  Jove !  —  but  you'll 
be  cool  enough  this  deuced  hot  weather  till  the  sessions  in 
February,  which  is  more  than  some  of  us  can  say.  Good- 
night." He  went  out  and  locked  the  door.  I  sat  down  on 
my  blanket  on  the  floor  and  hid  my  head  in  my  hands. 
I  wonder  it  didn't  burst  with  what  I  felt  then.  Strange 
that  I  shouldn't  have  felt  half  as  bad  when  the  judge,  the 
229 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

other  day,  sentenced  me  to  be  a  dead  man  in  a  couple  of 
months.     But  I  was  young  then. 

^  ^  «]C  rf«  9|C  ^  'I* 

Christmas  Day !  Christmas  Day !  So  this  is  how  I  was 
to  spend  it  after  all,  I  thought,  as  I  woke  up  at  dawn,  and 
saw  the  gray  light  just  beginning  to  get  through  the  bars  of 
the  window  of  the  cell. 

Here  was  I  locked  up,  caged,  ironed,  disgraced,  a  felon 
and  an  outcast  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Jim,  flying  for  his 
life,  hiding  from  every  honest  man,  every  policeman  in  the 
country  looking  after  him,  and  authorized  to  catch  him  or 
shoot  him  down  like  a  sheep-killing  dog.  Father  living  in 
the  Hollow,  like  a  black-fellow  in  a  cave,  afraid  to  spend 
the  blessed  Christmas  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  like  the 
poorest  man  in  the  land  could  do  if  he  was  only  honest. 
Mother  half  dead  with  grief,  and  Aileen  ashamed  to  speak 
to  the  man  that  loved  and  respected  her  from  her  childhood. 
Gracey  Storefield  not  daring  to  think  of  me  or  say  my  name, 
after  seeing  me  carried  off  a  prisoner  before  her  eyes.  Here 
was  a  load  of  misery  and  disgrace  heaped  up  together,  to  be 
borne  by  the  whole  family,  now  and  for  the  time  to  come  — 
by  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty.  And  for  what? 
Because  we  had  been  too  idle  and  careless  to  work  regularly 
and  save  our  money,  though  well  able  to  do  it,  like  honest 
men.  Because,  little  by  little,  we  had  let  bad  dishonest 
ways  and  flash  manners  grow  upon  us,  all  running  up  an 
account  that  had  to  be  paid  some  day. 

And  now  the  day  of  reckoning  had  come  —  sharp  and 
sudden  with  a  vengeance !  Well,  what  call  had  we  to  look 
for  anything  else?  We  had  been  working  for  it;  now  we 
had  got  it,  and  had  to  bear  it.  Not  for  want  of  warning, 
neither.  What  had  mother  and  Aileen  been  saying  ever 
230 


When  All  the  World  is   Kin 

since  we  could  remember?  Warning  upon  warning.  Now 
the  end  had  come  just  as  they  said.  Of  course  I  knew  in  a 
general  way  that  I  couldn't  be  punished  or  be  done  anything 
to  right  off.  I  knew  law  enough  for  that.  The  next  thing 
would  be  that  I  should  have  to  be  brought  up  before  the 
magistrates  and  committed  for  trial  as  soon  as  they  could 
get  any  evidence. 

After  breakfast,  flour  and  water  or  hominy,  I  forget  which, 
the  warder  told  me  that  there  wasn't  much  chance  of  my 
being  brought  up  before  Christmas  was  over.  The  police 
magistrate  was  away  on  a  month's  leave,  and  the  other 
magistrates  would  not  be  likely  to  attend  before  the  end  of 
the  week,  anyway.  So  I  must  make  myself  comfortable 
where  I  was.     Comfortable ! 

Rolf  Boldrewood  in  Robbery  under  Arms 


Colonel  Carter's  Christmas  Tree     ^^     ^^     ^> 

OOON  there  stole  over  every  one  in  the  room  that  sense 
^^  of  peace  and  contentment  which  always  comes  when 
one  is  at  ease  in  an  atmosphere  where  love  and  kindness 
reign.  The  soft  light  of  the  candles,  the  low,  rich  color  of 
the  simple  room  with  its  festoons  of  cedar  and  pine,  the 
aroma  of  the  rare  wine,  and  especially  the  spicy  smell  of  the 
hemlock  warmed  by  the  burning  tapers  —  that  rare,  un- 
mistakable smell  which  only  Christmas  greens  give  out  and 
which  few  of  us  know  but  once  a  year,  and  often  not  then; 
all  had  their  effect  on  host  and  guests.  Katy  became  so 
happy  that  she  lost  all  fear  of  her  father  and  prattled  on  to 
Fitz  and  me  (we  had  pinned  to  her  frock  the  rose  the 
Colonel  had  bought  for  the  "grown-up  daughter,"  and  she 
231 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

was  wearing  it  just  as  Aunt  Nancy  wore  hers),  and  Aunt 
Nancy  in  her  gentle  voice  talked  finance  to  Mr.  Klutchem 
in  a  way  that  made  him  open  his  eyes,  and.Fitz  laughingly 
joined  in,  giving  a  wide  berth  to  anything  bearing  on 
"corners"  or  "combinations"  or  "shorts"  and  "longs," 
while  I,  to  spare  Aunt  Nancy,  kept  one  eye  on  Jim,^ 
winking  at  him  with  it  once  or  twice  when  he  was  about  to 
commit  some  foolishness,  and  so  the  happy  feast  went  on. 

As  to  the  Colonel,  he  was  never  in  better  form.  To  him 
the  occasion  was  the  revival  of  the  old  Days  of  Plenty  —  the 
days  his  soul  coveted  and  loved:  his  to  enjoy,  his  to  dis- 
pense. 

But  if  it  had  been  delightful  before,  what  was  it  when 
Chad,  after  certain  mysterious  movements  in  the  next  room, 
bore  aloft  the  crowning  glory  of  the  evening,  and  placed  it 
with  all  its  candles  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  the  Colonel 
leaning  far  back  in  his  chair  to  give  him  room,  his  coat 
thrown  wide,  his  face  aglow,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  the 
laughter  that  always  kept  him  young ! 

Then  it  was  that  the  Colonel,  gathering  under  his  hand 
a  little  sheaf  of  paper  lamplighters  which  Chad  had 
twisted,  rose  from  his  seat,  picked  up  a  slender  glass  that  had 
once  served  his  father  ("only  seben  o'  dat  kind  left,"  Chad 
told  me)  and  which  that  faithful  servitor  had  just  filled  from 
the  flow  of  the  old  decanter  of  like  period,  and  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand  as  if  to  command  attention,  said,  in  a  clear,  firm 
voice  that  indicated  the  dignity  of  the  occasion:  "My 
friends,  — my  vehy  dear  friends,  I  should  say,  for  I  can  omit 
none  of  you  —  certainly  not  this  little  angel  who  has  cap- 
tured our  hearts,  and  surely  not  our  distinguished  guest,  Mr. 

1  "  Jim  "  is  the  pickaninny  in  buttons,  who,  as  Chad  says,  "  looks 
like  he's  busted  out  with  brass  measles." 
232 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

Klutchem,  who  has  honored  us  with  his  presence, —  befo' 
I  kindle  with  the  torch  of  my  love  these  little  beacons  which 
are  to  light  each  one  of  us  on  our  way  until  another  Christ- 
mas season  overtakes  us;  befo',  I  say,  these  sparks  burst 
into  life,  I  want  you  fill  yo'  glasses  (Chad  had  done  that  to 
the  brim  —  even  little  Katy's)  and  drink  to  the  health  and 
happiness  of  the  lady  on  my  right,  whose  presence  is  always 
a  benediction  and  whose  loyal  affection  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  treasures  of  my  life!" 

Everybody  except  the  dear  lady  stood  up  —  even  little 
Katy  —  and  Aunt  Nancy's  health  was  drunk  amid  her 
blushes,  she  remarking  to  Mr.  Klutchem  that  George  would 
always  embarrass  her  with  these  too  flattering  speeches  of 
his,  which  was  literally  true,  this  being  the  fourth  time  I  had 
heard  similar  sentiments  expressed  in  the  dear  lady's  honor. 

This  formal  toast  over,  the  Colonel's  whole  manner 
changed.  He  was  no  longer  the  dignified  host  conducting 
the  feast  with  measured  grace.  With  a  spring  in  his  voice 
and  a  certain  unrestrained  joyousness,  he  called  to  Chad  to 
bring  him  a  light  for  his  first  lamplighter.  Then,  with  the 
paper  wisp  balanced  in  his  hand,  he  began  counting  the 
several  candles,  peeping  into  the  branches  with  the  manner 
of  a  boy. 

"One  —  two  —  three  —  fo'  —  yes,  plenty  of  them,  but 
we  are  goin'  to  begin  with  the  top  one.  This  is  yours, 
Nancy  —  this  little  white  one  on  the  vehy  tip-top.  Gentle- 
men, this  top  candle  is  always  reserved  for  Miss  Caarter," 
and  the  lighted  taper  kindled  it  into  a  blaze.  "Just  like 
yo'  eyes,  my  dear,  burnin'  steadily  and  warmin'  everybody," 
and  he  tapped  her  hand  caressingly  with  his  fingers.  "And 
now,  where  is  that  darlin'  little  Katy's  —  she  must  have  a 
white  one,  too  —  here  it  is.  Oh,  what  a  brave  little  candle ! 
233 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Not  a  bit  of  sputterin'  or  smoke.  See,  dearie,  what  a 
beautiful  blaze  !  May  all  your  life  be  as  bright  and  happy. 
And  here  is  Mr.  Klutchem's  right  alongside  of  Katy's  —  a 
fine  red  one.  There  he  goes,  steady  and  clear  and  strong  — 
And  Fitz  —  dear  old  Fitz.  Let's  see  what  kind  of  a  candle 
Fitz  should  have.  Do  you  know,  Fitz,  if  I  had  my  way, 
I'd  light  the  whole  tree  for  you.  One  candle  is  absurd  for 
Fitz !  There,  Fitz,  it's  off  —  another  red  one !  All  you 
millionnaires  must  have  red  candles !  And  the  Major !  Ah, 
the  Major!"  —  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  me  —  "Let's 
see  —  yaller?  No,  that  will  never  do  for  you.  Major. 
Pink?  That's  better.  There  now,  see  how  fine  you  look 
and  how  evenly  you  burn  —  just  like  yo'  love,  my  dear  boy, 
that  never  fails  me." 

The  circle  of  the  table  was  now  complete ;  each  guest  had 
a  candle  alight,  and  each  owner  was  studying  the  several 
wicks  as  if  the  future  could  be  read  in  their  blaze:  Aunt 
Nancy  with  a  certain  seriousness.  To  her  the  custom  was  not 
new ;  the  memories  of  her  life  were  interwoven  with  many 
just  such  top  candles,  —  one  I  knew  of  myself,  that  went 
out  long,  long  ago,  and  has  never  been  rekindled  since. 

The  Colonel  stopped,  and  for  a  moment  we  thought  he 
was  about  to  take  his  seat,  although  some  wicks  were  still 
unlighted  —  his  own  among  them. 

Instantly  a  chorus  of  voices  went  up:  "You  have  for- 
gotten your  own.  Colonel  —  let  me  light  one  for  you,"  etc., 
etc.  Even  little  Katy  had  noticed  the  omission,  and  was 
pulling  at  my  sleeve  to  call  attention  to  the  fact:  the 
Colonel's  candle  was  the  only  one  she  really  cared  for. 
"One  minute,"  cried  the  Colonel.  "Time  enough;  the 
absent  ones  fust"  —  and  he  stooped  down  and  peered 
among  the  branches  —  "yes,  —  that's  just  the  very  one. 
234 


When  All  the  World  is  Kin 

This  candle,  Mr.  Klutchem,  is  for  our  old  Mammy  Henny, 
who  is  at  Caarter  Hall,  carin'  for  my  property,  and  who 
must  be  pretty  lonely  to-day  —  ah,  there  you  go,  Mammy ! 
—  blazin'  away  like  one  o'  yo'  own  fires!" 

Three  candles  now  were  all  that  were  left  unlighted; 
two  of  them  side  by  side  on  the  same  branch,  a  brown  one 
and  a  white  one,  and  below  these  a  yellow  one  standing  all 
alone. 

The  Colonel  selected  a  fresh  taper,  kindled  it  in  the  flame 
of  Aunt  Nancy's  top  candle,  and  turning  to  Chad,  who  was 
standing  behind  his  chair,  said :  — 

"I'm  goin'  to  put  you,  Chad,  where  you  belong,  —  right 
alongside  of  me.  Here,  Katy,  darlin',  take  this  taper  and 
light  this  white  candle  for  me,  and  I'll  light  the  brown  one 
for  Chad,"  and  he  picked  up  another  taper,  lighted  it,  and 
handed  it  to  the  child. 

"Now!" 

As  the  two  candles  flashed  into  flame,  the  Colonel  leaned 
over,  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  the  old  servant  —  boys 
together,  these  two,  said  in  a  voice  full  of  tenderness:  — 

"Many  years  together,  Chad,  —  many  years,  old  man." 

Chad's  face  broke  into  a  smile  as  he  pressed  the  Colonel's 
hand. 

"Thank  ye,  marster,"  was  all  he  trusted  himself  to  say  — 
a  title  the  days  of  freedom  had  never  robbed  him  of  —  and 
then  he  turned  his  head  to  hide  the  tears. 

During  the  whole  scene  little  Jim  had  stood  on  tiptoe,  his 
eyes  growing  brighter  and  brighter  as  each  candle  flashed 
into  a  blaze.  Up  to  the  time  of  the  lighting  of  the  last  guest 
candle  his  face  had  expressed  nothing  but  increasing 
delight.  When,  however.  Mammy  Henny's  candle,  and 
then  Chad's  were  kindled,  I  saw  an  expression  of  wonder- 
235 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

ment  cross  his  features  which  gradually  settled  into  one  of 
profound  disappointment. 

But  the  Colonel  had  not  yet  taken  his  seat.     He  had  re- 
lighted the  taper  —  this  time  from  Mammy  Henny's  candle 

—  and  stood  with  it  in  his  hand,  peering  into  the  branches  as 
if  looking  for  something  he  had  lost. 

"Ah,  here's  another.     I  wonder  —  who  —  this  —  little 

—  yaller  —  candle  —  can  —  be  —  for,"  he  said  slowly, 
looking  around  the  room  and  accentuating  each  word.  "I 
reckon  they're  all  here.  Let  me  see  —  Aunt  Nancy,  Mr. 
Klutchem,  Katy,  Fitz,  the  Major,  Mammy  Henny,  Chad, 
and  me.  Yes  —  all  here.  Oh!"  —  and  he  looked  at  the 
boy  with  a  quizzical  smile  on  his  face  —  "I  came  vehy  near 
forgettin'. 

"This  little  yaller  candle  is  Jim's." 

F.  HoPKiNSON  Smith  in  Colonel  Carter^ s  Christmas 

Copyright,  IQOJ,  by  Charles  Scribner^s  Sons 


236 


IX 
CHRISTMAS   STORIES 


CHRISTMAS   STORIES 


Christmas  Roses 

The  Fir  Tree 

The  Christmas  Banquet 

A  Christmas  Eve  in  Exile 

The  Rehearsal  of  the  Mummers'  Play 


"  TT  was  always  said  of  him,  that  he  knew  how  to  keep 
-'■   Christmas  well,  if  any  man  alive  possessed  the  know- 
ledge.    May  that  be  truly  said  of  us,  and  all  of  us !    And 
so,  as  Tiny  Tim  observed, 

God  Bless  Us, 
Every  One." 

Charles  Dickens 


240 


Christmas  Roses     ^^     ^^     ^^     ^^     ^^     <:^ 

T  ^ /"HEN  our  guests  were  gone  Pel  leas  and  I  sat  for  some 
^  ^  while  beside  the  drawing-room  fire.  They  had 
brought  us  a  box  of  Christmas  roses  and  these  made  sweet 
the  room  as  if  with  a  secret  Spring  —  a  Little  Spring,  such 
as  comes  to  us  all,  now  and  then,  through  the  year.  And 
it  was  the  enchanted  hour,  when  Christmas  eve  has  just 
passed  and  no  one  is  yet  awakened  by  the  universal  note 
of  Get-Your-Stocking-Before-Breakfast. 

"For  that  matter,"  Pelleas  said,  "every  day  is  a  loving 
cup,  only  some  of  us  see  only  one  of  its  handles:  Our  own." 

And  after  a  time :  — 

"Isn't  there  a  legend,"  he  wanted  to  know,  "or  if  there 
isn't  one  there  ought  to  be  one,  that  the  first  flowers  were 
Christmas  roses  and  that  you  can  detect  their  odour  in  all 
other  flowers?  I'm  not  sure,"  he  warmed  to  the  subject, 
"but  that  they  say  if  you  look  steadily,  with  clear  eyes,  you 
can  see  all  about  every  flower  many  little  lines,  in  the  shape 
of  a  Christmas  rose!" 

Of  course  nothing  beautiful  is  difficult  to  believe.  Even 
in  the  windows  of  the  great  florists,  where  the  dear  flowers 
pose  as  if  for  their  portraits,  we  think  that  one  looking 
closely  through  the  glass  may  see  in  their  faces  the  spirit 
of  the  Christmas  roses.  And  when  the  flowers  are  made 
a  gift  of  love  the  spirit  is  set  free.  Who  knows?  Perhaps 
the  gracious  little  spirit  is  in  us  all,  waiting  for  its  liberty 
in  our  best  gifts. 

And  at  thought  of  gifts  I  said,  on  Christmas  eve  of  all 
times,  what  had  been  for  some  time  in  my  heart :  — 

R  241 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"Pelleas,  we  ought  —  we  really  ought,  you  know,  to 
make  a  new  will." 

The  word  casts  a  veritable  shadow  on  the  page  as  I 
write  it.  Pel  leas,  conscious  of  the  same  shadow,  moved 
and  frowned. 

"But  why,  Etarre?"  he  asked;  "I  had  an  uncle  who 
lived  to  be  ninety." 

"So  will  you,"  I  said,  "and  still—" 

"He  began  translating  Theocritus  at  ninety,"  Pelleas 
continued  convincingly. 

"I'll  venture  he  had  made  his  will  by  then,  though,"  said  I. 

"Is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  make  mine?"  Pel- 
leas  demanded.     "I  never  did  the  things  my  family  did." 

"Like  living  until  ninety?"  I  murmured. 

O,  I  could  not  love  Pelleas  if  he  was  never  unreasonable. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  privilege  of  unreason  is  one  of  the 
gifts  of  marriage;  and  when  I  hear  The  Married  chiding 
each  other  for  the  exercise  of  this  gift  I  long  to  cry :  Is  it  not 
tiresome  enough  in  all  conscience  to  have  to  keep  up  a 
brave  show  of  reason  for  one's  friends,  without  wearing  a 
uniform  of  logic  in  private?  Laugh  at  each  other's  un- 
reason for  your  pastime,  and  Heaven  bless  you! 

Pelleas  can  do  more  than  this:  He  can  laugh  at  his  own 
unreason.     And  when  he  has  done  so :  — 

"Ah,  well,  I  know  we  ought,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  do 
so  object  to  the  literary  style  of  wills." 

It  has  long  been  a  sadness  of  ours  that  the  law  makes 
all  the  poor  dead  talk  alike  in  this  last  office  of  the  human 
pleasure,  so  that  cartman  and  potentate  and  philosopher 
give  away  their  chattels  to  the  same  dreary  choice  of  forms. 
No  matter  with  what  charming  propriety  they  have  in  life 
written  little  letters  to  accompany  gifts,  most  sensitively 
242 


Christmas  Stories 

shading  the  temper  of  bestowal,  yet  in  the  majesty  of  their 
passing  they  are  forced  into  a  very  strait-jacket  of  phrasing 
so  that  verily,  to  bequeath  a  thing  to  one's  friend  is  well- 
nigh  to  throw  it  at  him.  Yes,  one  of  the  drawbacks  to 
dying  is  the  diction  of  wills. 

Pelleas  meditated  for  a  moment  and  then  laughed  out. 

"Telegrams,"  said  he,  "are  such  a  social  convenience 
in  life  that  I  don't  see  why  they  don't  extend  their  function. 
Then  all  we  should  need  would  be  two  witnesses,  ready 
for  anything,  and  some  yellow  telegraph  blanks,  and  a 
lawyer  to  file  the  messages  whenever  we  should  die,  telling 
all  our  friends  what  we  wish  them  to  have." 

At  once  we  fell  to  planning  the  telegrams,  quite  as  if  the 
Eye  of  the  Law  knew  what  it  is  to  wrinkle  at  the  corners. 

As, 

Mrs.  Lawrence  Knight, 
Little  Rosemont, 
L.  L 
I  wish  you  to  have  my  mother's  pearls  and  her  mahogany 
and  my  Samarcand  rug  and  my  Langhorne  Plutarch  and 

^  ^^•^^-  Aunt  Etarre 

and 

Mr.  Eric  Charters, 
To  His  Club. 
Come  to  the  house  and  get  the  Royal  Sevres  tea-service 
on  which  you  and  Lisa  had  your  first  tea  together  and  a 
check  made  out  to  you  in  my  check  book  in  the  library 
table  drawer.  Uncle  Pelleas 

And  so  on,  with  the  witnesses'  names  properly  in  the 
corners. 

243 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"Perfect,"  said  I  with  enthusiasm.  "O  Pelleas,  let  us 
get  a  bill  through  to  this  effect." 

"But  we  may  live  to  be  only  ninety,  you  know,"  he 
reminded  me. 

We  went  to  the  window,  presently,  and  threw  it  open  to 
the  chance  of  hearing  the  bird  of  dawning  singing  all  night 
long  in  the  Park,  which  is  of  course,  in  New  York,  where 
it  sings  on  Star  of  Bethlehem  night.  We  did  not  hear  it, 
but  it  is  something  to  have  been  certain  that  it  was  there. 
And  as  we  closed  the  casement, 

"After  all,"  Pelleas  said  seriously,  "the  Telegraph  Will 
Bill  would  have  to  do  only  with  property.  And  a  will 
ought  to  be  concerned  with  soberer  matters." 

So  it  ought,  in  spite  of  its  dress  of  diction,  rather  like  the 
motley. 

"A  man,"  Pelleas  continued,  "ought  to  have  something 
more  important  to  will  away  than  his  house  and  his  watch 
and  his  best  bed.  A  man's  poor  soul,  now  —  unless  he  is 
an  artist,  which  he  probably  is  not  —  has  no  chance  ver- 
bally to  leave  anybody  anything." 

"It  makes  its  will  every  day,"  said  I. 

"Even  so,"  Pelleas  contended,  "it  ought  to  die  rich  if 
it's  anything  of  a  soul." 

And  that  is  true  enough. 

"Suppose,"  Pelleas  suggested,  "the  telegrams  were  to 
contain  something  like  this:  'And  from  my  spirit  to  yours 
I  bequeath  the  hard-won  knowledge  that  you  must  be  true 
from  the  beginning.  But  if  by  any  chance  you  have  not 
been  so,  then  you  must  be  true  from  the  moment  that  you 
know.'     Why  not?" 

Why  not,  indeed? 

"I  think  that  would  be  mine  to  give,"  Pelleas  said  re- 
244 


Christmas  Stories 

flectively;    "and    what    would    yours    be,    Etarre?"   he 
asked. 

At  that  I  fell  in  sudden  abashment.  What  could  I  say  ? 
What  would  I  will  my  poor  life  to  mean  to  any  one  who 
chances  to  know  that  I  have  lived  at  all?  O,  I  dare  say  I 
should  have  been  able  to  formulate  many  a  fine-sounding 
phrase  about  the  passion  for  perfection,  but  confronted 
with  the  necessity  I  could  think  of  nothing  save  a  few 
straggling  truths. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I  uncertainly;  "I  am  sure  of  so 
little,  save  self-giving.  I  should  like  to  bequeath  some 
knowledge  of  the  magic  of  self-giving.  Now  Nichola," 
I  hazarded,  to  evade  the  matter,  "would  no  doubt  say: 
'And  from  my  soul  to  your  soul  this  word  about  the  uni- 
verse:   Helping  is  why.'  " 

"But  you — you,  Etarre,"  Pelleas  persisted;  "what  would 
the  real  You  will  to  others,  in  this  mortuary  telegram  ? " 

And  as  I  looked  at  him  I  knew. 

"O  Pelleas,"  I  said,  "I  think  I  would  telegraph  to  every 
one:  'From  my  spirit  to  your  spirit,  some  understanding 
of  the  preciousness  of  love.     And  the  need  to  keep  it  true.' " 

I  shall  always  remember  with  what  gladness  he  turned  to 
me.  I  wished  that  his  smile  and  our  bright  hearth  and  our 
Christmas  roses  might  bless  every  one. 

"I  wanted  you  to  say  that,"  said  Pelleas. 

Zona  Gale  in  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 

The  Fir  Tree    ^:>    <:^     ^>     ^^:^     ^^y     ^v^     <;^ 

FAR  away  in  the  deep  forest  there  once  grew  a  pretty 
Fir  Tree;  the  situation  was  delightful,  the  sun  shone 
full  upon  him,  the  breeze  played  freely  around  him,  and  in 
245 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

the  neighbourhood  grew  many  companion  fir  trees,  some 
older,  some  younger.  But  the  little  Fir  Tree  was  not 
happy:  he  was  always  longing  to  be  tall;  he  thought  not 
of  the  warm  sun  and  the  fresh  air;  he  cared  not  for  the 
merry,  prattling  peasant  children  who  came  to  the  forest 
to  look  for  strawberries  and  raspberries.  Except,  indeed, 
sometimes,  when  after  having  filled  their  pitchers,  or 
threaded  the  bright  berries  on  a  straw,  they  would  sit  down 
near  the  little  Fir  Tree,  and  say,  "What  a  pretty  little  tree 
this  is ! "  and  then  the  Fir  Tree  would  feel  very  much  vexed. 

Year  by  year  he  grew,  a  long  green  shoot  sent  he  forth 
every  year;  for  you  may  always  tell  how  many  years  a  fir 
tree  has  lived  by  counting  the  number  of  joints  in  its  stem. 

"Oh,  that  I  was  as  tall  as  the  others  are,"  sighed  the 
little  Tree,  "then  I  should  spread  out  my  branches  so  far, 
and  my  crown  should  look  out  over  the  wide  world  around  1 
the  birds  would  build  their  nests  among  my  branches,  and 
when  the  wind  blew  I  should  bend  my  head  so  grandly, 
just  as  the  others  do!" 

He  had  not  pleasure  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  song  of  the 
birds,  or  in  the  birds,  or  in  the  red  clouds  that  sailed  over 
him  every  morning  and  evening. 

In  the  winter  time,  when  the  ground  was  covered  with 
the  white,  glistening  snow,  there  was  a  hare  that  would 
come  continually  scampering  about,  and  jumping  right 
over  the  little  Tree's  head  —  and  that  was  most  provoking ! 
However,  two  winters  passed  away,  and  by  the  third  the 
Tree  was  so  tall  that  the  hare  was  obliged  to  run  around  it. 
"Oh !  to  grow,  to  grow,  to  become  tall  and  old,  that  is  the 
only  thing  in  the  world  worth  Hving  for;"  —  so  thought 
the  Tree. 

The  wood  cutters  came  in  the  autumn  and  felled  some 
246 


Christmas  Stories 

among  the  largest  of  the  trees;  this  happened  every  year, 
and  our  young  Fir,  who  was  by  this  time  a  tolerable  height, 
shuddered  when  he  saw  those  grand,  magnificent  trees 
fall  with  a  tremendous  crash,  crackling  to  the  earth: 
their  boughs  were  then  all  cut  off.  Terribly  naked,  and 
lanky,  and  long  did  the  stem  look  after  this  —  they  could 
hardly  be  recognized.  They  were  laid  one  upon  another 
in  wagons,  and  horses  drew  them  away,  far,  far  away, 
from  the  forest.  Where  could  they  be  going?  What 
might  be  their  fortunes? 

So  next  spring,  when  the  Swallows  and  the  Storks  had 
returned  from  abroad,  the  Tree  asked  them,  saying, 
"Know  you  not  whither  they  are  taken?  have  you  not  met 
them?" 

The  swallows  knew  nothing  about  the  matter,  but  the 
Stork  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  then  nodded  his 
head,  and  said:  "Yes,  I  believe  I  have  seen  them!  As 
I  was  flying  from  Egypt  to  this  place  I  met  several  ships; 
those  ships  had  splendid  masts.  I  have  little  doubt  that 
they  were  the  trees  that  you  speak  of;  they  smelled  like  fir 
wood.  I  may  congratulate  you,  for  they  sailed  gloriously, 
quite  gloriously !" 

"Oh,  that  I,  too,  were  tall  enough  to  sail  upon  the  sea! 
Tell  me  what  it  is,  this  sea,  and  what  it  looks  like." 

"Thank  you,  it  would  take  too  long,  a  great  deal!" 
said  the  Stork,  and  away  he  stalked. 

"Rejoice  in  thy  youth!"  said  the  Sunbeams;  "rejoice 
in  thy  luxuriant  youth,  in  the  fresh  life  that  is  within  thee !" 

And  the  Wind  kissed  the  Tree,  and  the  Dew  wept  tears 
over  him,  but  the  Fir  Tree  understood  them  not. 

When  Christmas  approached,  many  quite  young  trees 
were  felled  —  trees  which  were  some  of  them  not  so  tall 
247 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

or  of  just  the  same  height  as  the  young  restless  Fir  Tree 
who  was  always  longing  to  be  away.  These  young  trees 
were  chosen  from  the  most  beautiful,  their  branches  were 
not  cut  off,  they  were  laid  in  a  wagon,  and  horses  drew 
them  away,  far,  far  away  from  the  forest. 

"Where  are  they  going?"  asked  the  Fir  Tree.  "They 
are  not  larger  than  I  am;  indeed,  one  of  them  was  much 
less.  Why  do  they  keep  all  their  branches?  where  can 
they   be   gone  ? " 

"We  know!  we  know!"  twittered  the  Sparrows. 
"We  peeped  in  through  the  windows  of  the  town  below! 
we  know  where  they  are  gone!  Oh,  you  cannot  think 
what  honour  and  glory  they  receive !  We  looked  through 
the  window-panes  and  saw  them  planted  in  a  warm  room, 
and  decked  out  with  such  beautiful  things  —  gilded  apples, 
sweetmeats,  playthings,  and  hundreds  of  bright  candles!" 

"And  then?"  asked  the  Fir  Tree,  trembling  in  every 
bough;    "and  then?    what  happened  then?" 

"Oh,  we  saw  no  more.  That  was  beautiful,  beautiful 
beyond  compare ! " 

"Is  this  glorious  lot  destined  to  be  mine?"  cried  the 
Fir  Tree,  with  delight.  "This  is  far  better  than  sailing 
over  the  sea.  How  I  long  for  the  time !  Oh,  that  I  were 
even  now  in  the  wagon !  that  I  were  in  the  warm  room, 
honoured  and  adorned !  and  then  —  yes,  then,  something 
still  better  must  happen,  else  why  should  they  take  the 
trouble  to  decorate  me?  it  must  be  that  something  still 
greater,  still  more  splendid,  must  happen  —  but  what  ? 
Oh,  I  suffer,  I  suffer  with  longing !  I  know  not  what  it  is 
that  I  feel!" 

"Rejoice  in  our  love!"   said  the  Air  and  the  Sunshine. 
"Rejoice  in  thy  youth  and  thy  freedom!" 
248 


Christmas   Stories 

But  rejoice  he  never  would :  he  grew  and  grew,  in  winter 
as  in  summer  he  stood  there  clothed  in  green,  dark  green 
foHage;  the  people  that  saw  him  said,  "That  is  a  beauti- 
ful tree!"  and,  next  Christmas,  he  was  the  first  that  was 
felled.  The  axe  struck  sharply  through  the  wood,  the 
tree  fell  to  the  earth  with  a  heavy  groan;  he  suffered  an 
agony,  a  faintness,  that  he  had  never  expected.  He  quite 
forgot  to  think  of  his  good  fortune,  he  felt  such  sorrow  at 
being  compelled  to  leave  his  home,  the  place  whence  he 
had  sprung;  he  knew  that  he  should  never  see  again  those 
dear  old  comrades,  or  the  little  bushes  and  flowers  that 
had  flourished  under  his  shadow,  perhaps  not  even  the 
birds.  Neither  did  he  find  the  journey  by  any  means 
pleasant. 

The  Tree  first  came  to  himself  when,  in  the  court-yard 
to  which  he  first  was  taken  with  the  other  trees,  he  heard 
a  man  say,  "This  is  a  splendid  one,  the  very  thing  we 
want!" 

Then  came  two  smartly  dressed  servants,  and  carried 
the  Fir  Tree  into  a  large  and  handsome  saloon.  Pictures 
hung  on  the  walls,  and  on  the  mantel-piece  stood  large 
Chinese  vases  with  lions  on  the  Hds;  there  were  rocking- 
chairs,  silken  sofas,  tables  covered  with  picture-books,  and 
toys  that  had  cost  a  hundred  times  a  hundred  rix-thalers  — 
at  least  so  said  the  children.  And  the  Fir  Tree  was  planted 
in  a  large  cask  filled  with  sand,  but  no  one  could  know  that 
it  was  a  cask,  for  it  was  hung  with  green  cloth  and  placed 
upx)n  the  carpet  woven  of  many  gay  colours.  Oh,  how 
the  Tree  trembled!  What  was  to  happen  next?  A 
young  lady,  assisted  by  the  servants,  now  began  to  adorn 
him. 

Upon  some  branches  they  hung  little  nets  cut  out  of 
249 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

coloured  paper,  every  net  filled  with  sugar-plums;  from 
others  gilded  apples  and  walnuts  were  suspended,  look- 
ing just  as  if  they  had  grown  there;  and  more  than  a 
hundred  little  wax  tapers,  red,  blue,  and  white,  were 
placed  here  and  there  among  the  boughs.  Dolls,  that 
looked  almost  like  men  and  women,  —  the  Tree  had 
never  seen  such  things  before,  —  seemed  dancing  to  and 
fro  among  the  leaves,  and  highest,  on  the  summit,  was 
fastened  a  large  star  of  gold  tinsel;  this  was,  indeed,  splen- 
did, splendid  beyond  compare!  "This  evening,"  they 
said,  "this  evening  it  will  be  lighted  up." 

"Would  that  it  were  evening!"  thought  the  Tree. 
"Would  that  the  lights  were  kindled,  for  then  —  what  will 
happen  then  ?  Will  the  trees  come  out  of  the  forest  to  see 
me?  Will  the  sparrows  fly  here  and  look  in  through  the 
window-panes?  Shall  I  stand  here  adorned  both  winter 
and  summer?" 

He  thought  much  of  it;  he  thought  till  he  had  bark-ache 
with  longing,  and  bark-aches  with  trees  are  as  bad  as 
head-aches  with  us.  The  candles  were  lighted,  —  oh, 
what  a  blaze  of  splendour!  the  Tree  trembled  in  all  his 
branches,  so  that  one  of  them  caught  fire.  "Oh,  dear!" 
cried  the  young  lady,  and  it  was  extinguished  in  great 
haste. 

So  the  Tree  dared  not  tremble  again;  he  was  so  fearful 
of  losing  something  of  his  splendour,  he  felt  almost  be- 
wildered in  the  midst  of  all  this  glory  and  brightness. 
And  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  both  folding-doors  were  flung 
open,  and  a  troop  of  children  rushed  in  as  if  they  had  a 
mind  to  jump  over  him.  The  older  people  followed  more 
quietly;  the  little  ones  stood  quite  silent,  but  only  for  a 
moment!  then  their  jubilee  burst  forth  afresh;  they 
250 


Christmas  Stories 

shouted  till  the  walls  re-echoed,  they  danced  round  the 
Tree,  one  present  after  another  was  torn  down. 

"What  are  they  doing?"  thought  the  Tree ;  "what  will 
happen  now!"  And  the  candles  burned  down  to  the 
branches,  so  they  were  extinguished,  —  and  the  children 
were  given  leave  to  plunder  the  Tree.  Oh !  they  rushed 
upon  him  in  such  riot,  that  the  boughs  all  crackled;  had 
not  his  summit  been  festooned  with  the  gold  star  to  the 
ceiling  he  would  have  been  overturned. 

The  children  danced  and  played  about  with  their  beau- 
tiful playthings;  no  one  thought  any  more  of  the  Tree 
except  the  old  nurse,  who  came  and  peeped  among  the 
boughs,  but  it  was  only  to  see  whether  perchance  a  fig  or 
an  apple  had  not  been  left  among  them. 

"A  story,  a  story!"  cried  the  children,  pulling  a  short, 
thick  man  toward  the  Tree.  He  sat  down,  saying,  "It  is 
pleasant  to  sit  under  the  shade  of  green  boughs;  besides, 
the  Tree  may  be  benefited  by  hearing  my  story.  But  I 
shall  only  tell  you  one.  Would  you  like  to  hear  about 
Ivedy  Avedy,  or  about  Humpty  Dumpty,  who  fell  down- 
stairs, and  yet  came  to  the  throne  and  won  the  Princess?" 

"Ivedy  Avedy!"  cried  some;  "Humpty  Dumpty!" 
cried  others;  there  was  a  famous  uproar;  the  Fir  Tree 
alone  was  silent,  thinking  to  himself,  "Ought  I  to  make  a 
noise  as  they  do?  or  ought  I  to  do  nothing  at  all?"  for 
he  most  certainly  was  one  of  the  company,  and  had  done 
all  that  had  been  required  of  him. 

And  the  short,  thick  man  told  the  story  of  Humpty 
Dumpty,  who  fell  downstairs,  and  yet  came  to  the  throne 
and  won  the  Princess.  And  the  children  clapped  their 
hands  and  called  out  for  another;  they  wanted  to  hear 
the  story  of  Ivedy  Avedy  also,  but  they  did  not  get  it. 

251 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

The  Fir  Tree  stood  meanwhile  quite  silent  and  thought- 
ful—  the  birds  in  the  forest  had  never  related  anything 
like  this.  "Humpty  Dumpty  fell  downstairs,  and  yet 
was  raised  to  the  throne  and  won  the  Princess !  Yes,  yes, 
strange  things  come  to  pass  in  the  world !"  thought  the  Fir 
Tree,  who  believed  it  must  all  be  true,  because  such  a 
pleasant  man  had  related  it.  "Ah,  ah!  who  knows  but  I 
may  fall  downstairs  and  win  a  Princess?"  And  he  re- 
joiced in  the  expectation  of  being  next  day  again  decked 
out  with  candles  and  playthings,  gold  and  fruit. 

"To-morrow  I  will  not  tremble,"  thought  he.  "I  will 
rejoice  in  my  magnificence.  To-morrow  I  shall  again 
hear  the  story  of  Humpty  Dumpty,  and  perhaps  that  about 
Ivedy  Avedy  likewise,"  and  the  Tree  mused  thereupon 
all  night. 

In  the  morning  the  maids  came  in. 

"Now  begins  my  state  anew!"  thought  the  Tree.  But 
they  dragged  him  out  of  the  room,  up  the  stairs,  and  into 
an  attic-chamber,  and  there  thrust  him  into  a  dark  corner, 
where  not  a  ray  of  light  could  penetrate.  "What  can  be 
the  meaning  of  this?"  thought  the  Tree.  "What  am  I 
to  do  here?  What  shall  I  hear  in  this  place?"  And  he 
leant  against  the  wall,  and  thought,  and  thought.  And 
plenty  of  time  he  had  for  thinking  it  over,  for  day  after  day 
and  night  after  night  passed  away,  and  yet  no  one  ever 
came  into  the  room.  At  last  somebody  did  come  in,  but 
it  was  only  to  push  into  the  corner  some  old  trunks;  the 
Tree  was  now  entirely  hidden  from  sight,  and  apparently 
entirely  forgotten. 

"It  is  now  winter,"  thought  the  Tree.  "The  ground 
is  hard  and  covered  with  snow ;  they  cannot  plant  me  now, 
so  I  am  to  stay  here  in  shelter  till  the  spring.  Men  are  so 
252 


Christmas  Stories 

clever  and  prudent !  I  only  wish  it  were  not  so  dark  and 
dreadfully  lonely !  not  even  a  little  hare  !  Oh,  how  pleas- 
ant it  was  in  the  forest,  when  the  snow  lay  on  the  ground 
and  the  hare  scampered  about,  —  yes,  even  when  he 
jumped  over  my  head,  though  I  did  not  like  it  then.  It 
is  so  terribly  lonely  here." 

''Squeak,  squeak!"  cried  a  little  Mouse,  just  then 
gliding  forward.  Another  followed;  they  snuffed  about 
the  Fir  Tree,  and  then  slipped  in  and  out  among  the 
branches. 

"It  is  horribly  cold!"  said  the  little  Mice.  "Otherwise 
it  is  very  comfortable  here.  Don't  you  think  so,  you 
old  Fir  Tree?" 

"I  am  not  old,"  said  the  Fir  Tree;  ''there  are  many 
who  are  much  older  than  I  am." 

"How  came  you  here?"  asked  the  Mice,  "and  what 
do  you  know?"  They  were  most  uncommonly  curious. 
"Tell  us  about  the  most  delightful  place  on  earth.  Have 
you  ever  been  there?  Have  you  been  into  the  store  room, 
where  cheeses  lie  on  the  shelves,  and  bacon  hangs  from 
the  ceiling;  where  one  can  dance  over  tallow  candles; 
where  one  goes  in  thin  and  comes  out  fat?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,"  said  the  Tree,  "but  I 
know  the  forest,  where  the  sun  shines  and  where  the  birds 
sing!"  and  then  he  spoke  of  his  youth  and  its  pleasures. 
The  little  Mice  had  never  heard  anything  like  it  before; 
they  listened  so  attentively  and  said,  "Well,  to  be  sure! 
how  much  you  have  seen !  how  happy  you  have 
been!" 

"Happy!"  repeated  the  Fir  Tree,  in  surprise,  and  he 
thought  a  moment  over  all  that  he  had  been  saying,  — • 
"Yes,  on  the  whole,  those  were  pleasant  times !"  He  then 
253 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

told   them  about  the  Christmas  eve,  when  he  had  been 
decked  out  with  cakes  and  candles. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  little  Mice,  "how  happy  you  have 
been,  you  old  Fir  Tree!" 

"I  am  not  old  at  all!"  returned  the  Fir;  "it  is  only 
this  winter  that  I  have  left  the  forest;  I  am  just  in  the 
prime  of  life  1 " 

"How  well  you  can  talk !"  said  the  little  Mice;  and  the 
next  night  they  came  again,  and  brought  with  them  four 
other  little  Mice,  who  wanted  also  to  hear  the  Tree's  his- 
tory; and  the  more  the  Tree  spoke  of  his  youth  in  the 
forest,  the  more  vividly  he  remembered  it,  and  said,  "Yes, 
those  were  pleasant  times !  but  they  may  come  again,  they 
may  come  again!  Humpty  Dumpty  fell  downstairs,  and 
for  all  that  he  won  the  Princess;  perhaps  I,  too,  may  win 
a  Princess;"  and  then  the  Fir  Tree  thought  of  a  pretty 
little  delicate  Birch  Tree  that  grew  in  the  forest,  —  a  real 
Princess,  a  very  lovely  Princess,  was  she  to  the  Fir  Tree. 

"Who  is  this  Humpty  Dumpty?"  asked  the  little  Mice. 
Whereupon  he  related  the  tale;  he  could  remember  every 
word  of  it  perfectly:  and  the  little  Mice  were  ready  to 
jump  to  the  top  of  the  Tree  for  joy.  The  night  following 
several  more  Mice  came,  and  on  Sunday  came  also  two 
Rats;  they,  however,  declared  that  the  story  was  not  at  all 
amusing,  which  much  vexed  the  little  Mice,  who,  after 
hearing  their  opinion,  could  not  like  it  so  well  either. 

"Do  you  know  only  that  one  story?"   asked  the  Rats. 

"Only  that  one!"  answered  the  Tree;  "I  heard  it  on 
the  happiest  evening  of  my  life,  though  I  did  not  then  know 
how  happy  I  was." 

"It  is  a  miserable  story!     Do  you  know  none  about 
pork  and  tallow?  —  no  store-room  story?" 
254 


Christmas  Stories 

"No,"  said  the  Tree. 

"Well,  then,  we  have  heard  enough  of  it !"  returned  the 
Rats,  and  they  went  their  ways. 

The  little  Mice,  too,  never  came  again.  The  Tree 
sighed.  "It  was  pleasant  when  they  sat  round  me,  those 
busy  little  Mice,  listening  to  my  words.  Now  that,  too, 
is  all  past !  however,  I  shall  have  pleasure  in  remembering 
it,  when  I  am  taken  away  from  this  place." 

But  when  would  that  be?  One  morning,  people  came 
and  routed  out  the  lumber  room;  the  trunks  were  taken 
away,  the  Tree,  too,  was  dragged  out  of  the  corner;  they 
threw  him  carelessly  on  the  floor,  but  one  of  the  servants 
picked  him  up  and  carried  him  downstairs.  Once  more 
he  beheld  the  light  of  day. 

"Now  life  begins  again!"  thought  the  Tree;  he  felt 
the  fresh  air,  the  warm  sunbeams  —  he  was  out  in  the 
court.  All  happened  so  quickly  that  the  Tree  quite  forgot 
to  look  at  himself,  —  there  was  so  much  to  look  at  all 
around.  The  court  joined  a  garden,  everything  was  so 
fresh  and  blooming,  the  roses  clustered  so  bright  and  so 
fragrant  round  the  trellis-work,  the  lime-trees  were  in  full 
blossom,  and  the  swallows  flew  backwards  and  forwards, 
twittering,  "Quirri-virri-vit,  my  beloved  is  come!"  but  it 
was  not  the  Fir  Tree  whom  they  meant. 

"I  shall  live!  I  shall  live!"  He  was  filled  with  de- 
lighted hope;  he  tried  to  spread  out  his  branches,  but, 
alas !  they  were  all  dried  up  and  yellow.  He  was  thrown 
down  upon  a  heap  of  weeds  and  nettles.  The  star  of  gold 
tinsel  that  had  been  left  fixed  on  his  crown  now  sparkled 
brightly  in  the  sunshine. 

Some  merry  children  were  playing  in  the  court,  the  same 
who  at  Christmas  time  had  danced  round  the  Tree.  One 
255 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

of  the  youngest  now  perceived  the  gold  star,  and  ran  to 
tear  it  off. 

"Look  at  it,  still  fastened  to  the  ugly  old  Christmas 
Tree !"  cried  he,  trampling  upon  the  boughs  till  they  broke 
under  his  boots. 

And  the  Tree  looked  on  all  the  flowers  of  the  garden  now 
blooming  in  the  freshness  of  their  beauty;  he  looked  upon 
himself,  and  he  wished  from  his  heart  that  he  had  been 
left  to  wither  alone  in  the  dark  corner  of  the  lumber  room ; 
he  called  to  mind  his  happy  forest  life,  the  merry  Christmas 
eve,  and  the  little  Mice  who  had  listened  so  eagerly  when 
he  related  the  story  of  Humpty  Dumpty. 

"Past,  all  past!"  said  the  poor  Tree.  "Had  I  but 
been  happy,  as  I  might  have  been!    Past,  all  past!" 

And  the  servant  came  and  broke  the  Tree  into  small 
pieces,  heaped  them  up  and  set  fire  to  them.  And  the 
Tree  groaned  deeply,  and  every  groan  sounded  like  a 
little  shot;  the  children  all  ran  up  to  the  place  and  jumped 
about  in  front  of  the  blaze,  looking  into  it  and  crying, 
"Piff,  piff !"  But  at  each  of  those  heavy  groans  the  Fir 
Tree  thought  of  a  bright  summer's  day,  or  a  starry  winter's 
night  in  the  forest,  of  Christmas  eve,  or  of  Humpty  Dumpty, 
the  only  story  that  he  knew  and  could  relate.  And  at  last 
the  Tree  was  burned. 

The  boys  played  about  the  court;  on  the  bosom  of  the 
youngest  sparkled  the  gold  star  that  the  Tree  had  worn  on 
the  happiest  evening  of  his  life;  but  that  was  past,  and 
the  Tree  was  past,  and  the  story  also,  past !  past !  for  all 
stories  must  come  to  an  end,  some  time  or  other. 

Hans  Christian  Andersen 


256 


Christmas  Stories 
The  Christmas  Banquet    ^^    ^:>     ^>    ^;:>     -=:^ 

IN  a  certain  old  gentleman's  last  will  and  testament 
there  appeared  a  bequest,  which,  as  his  final  thought 
and  deed,  was  singularly  in  keeping  with  a  long  life  of 
melancholy  eccentricity.  He  devised  a  considerable  sum 
for  establishing  a  fund,  the  interest  of  which  was  to  be  ex- 
pended, annually  forever,  in  preparing  a  Christmas  Banquet 
for  ten  of  the  most  miserable  persons  that  could  be  found. 
It  seemed  not  to  be  the  testator's  purpose  to  make  these 
half  a  score  of  sad  hearts  merry,  but  to  provide  that  the 
storm  of  fierce  expression  of  human  discontent  should  not 
be  drowned,  even  for  that  one  holy  and  joyful  day,  amid 
the  acclamations  of  festal  gratitude  which  all  Christendom 
sends  up.  And  he  desired,  likewise,  to  perpetuate  his  own 
remonstrance  against  the  earthly  course  of  Providence, 
and  his  sad  and  sour  dissent  from  those  systems  of  religion 
or  philosophy  which  either  find  sunshine  in  the  world  or 
draw  it  down  from  heaven. 

The  task  of  inviting  the  guests,  or  of  selecting  among 
such  as  might  advance  their  claims  to  partake  of  this  dismal 
hospitality,  was  confided  to  the  two  trustees  or  stewards  of 
the  fund.  These  gentlemen,  like  their  deceased  friend, 
were  sombre  humorists,  who  made  it  their  principal  occu- 
pation to  number  the  sable  threads  in  the  web  of  human 
life,  and  drop  all  the  golden  ones  out  of  the  reckoning. 
They  performed  their  present  office  with  integrity  and 
judgment.  The  aspect  of  the  assembled  company,  on  the 
day  of  the  first  festival,  might  not,  it  is  true,  have  satisfied 
every  beholder  that  these  were  especially  the  individuals, 
chosen  forth  from  all  the  world,  whose  griefs  were  worthy 
to  stand  as  indicators  of  the  mass  of  human  sufTering.  Yet, 
s  257 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

after  due  consideration,  it  could  not  be  disputed  that  here 
was  a  variety  of  hopeless  discomfort,  which,  if  it  arose  from 
causes  apparently  inadequate,  was  thereby  only  the  shrewder 
imputation  against  the  nature  and  mechanism  of  life. 

The  arrangements  and  decorations  of  the  banquet  were 
probably  intended  to  signify  that  death  in  life  which  had 
been  the  testator's  definition  of  existence.  The  hall, 
illuminated  by  torches,  was  hung  round  with  curtains  of 
deep  and  dusky  purple,  and  adorned  with  branches  of 
cypress  and  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers,  imitative  of  such 
as  used  to  be  strown  over  the  dead.  A  sprig  of  parsley 
was  laid  by  every  plate.  The  main  reservoir  of  wine  was  a 
sepulchral  urn  of  silver,  whence  the  liquor  was  distributed 
around  the  table  in  small  vases,  accurately  copied  from 
those  that  held  the  tears  of  ancient  mourners.  Neither 
had  the  stewards  —  if  it  were  their  taste  that  arranged 
these  details  —  forgotten  the  fantasy  of  the  old  Egyptians, 
who  seated  a  skeleton  at  every  festive  board,  and  mocked 
their  own  merriment  with  the  imperturbable  grin  of  a 
death's-head.  Such  a  fearful  guest,  shrouded  in  a  black 
mantle,  sat  now  at  the  head  of  the  table.  It  was  whis- 
pered, I  know  not  with  what  truth,  that  the  testator  him- 
self had  once  walked  the  visible  world  with  the  machinery 
of  that  same  skeleton,  and  that  it  was  one  of  the  stipula- 
tions of  his  will,  that  he  should  thus  be  permitted  to  sit, 
from  year  to  year,  at  the  banquet  which  he  had  instituted. 
If  so,  it  was  perhaps  covertly  implied  that  he  had  cherished 
no  hopes  of  bliss  beyond  the  grave  to  compensate  for  the 
evils  which  he  felt  or  imagined  here.  And  if,  in  their 
bewildered  conjectures  as  to  the  purpose  of  earthly  exist- 
ence, the  banqueters  should  throw  aside  the  veil,  and  cast 
an  inquiring  glance  at  this  figure  of  death,  as  seeking  thence 
258 


Christmas  Stories 

the  solution  otherwise  unattainable,  the  only  reply  would 
be  a  stare  of  the  vacant  eye  caverns  and  a  grin  of  the  skele- 
ton jaws.  Such  was  the  response  that  the  dead  man  had 
fancied  himself  to  receive  when  he  asked  of  Death  to  solve 
the  riddle  of  his  life ;  and  it  was  his  desire  to  repeat  it  when 
the  guests  of  his  dismal  hospitality  should  find  themselves 
perplexed  with  the  same  question. 

"What  means  that  wreath?"  asked  several  of  the 
company,  while  viewing  the  decorations  of  the  table. 

They  alluded  to  a  wreath  of  cypress,  which  was  held 
on  high  by  a  skeleton  arm,  protruding  from  within  the 
black  mantle. 

"It  is  a  crown,"  said  one  of  the  stewards,  "not  for  the 
worthiest,  but  for  the  wofulest,  when  he  shall  prove  his 
claim  to  it." 

The  guest  earliest  bidden  to  the  festival  was  a  man  of 
soft  and  gentle  character,  who  had  not  energy  to  struggle 
against  the  heavy  despondency  to  which  his  temperament 
rendered  him  liable ;  and  therefore  with  nothing  outwardly 
to  excuse  him  from  happiness,  he  had  spent  a  life  of  quiet 
misery  that  made  his  blood  torpid,  and  weighed  upon  his 
breath,  and  sat  like  a  ponderous  night  fiend  upon  every 
throb  of  his  unresisting  heart.  His  wretchedness  seemed 
as  deep  as  his  original  nature,  if  not  identical  with  it. 
It  was  the  misfortune  of  a  second  guest  to  cherish  within 
his  bosom  a  diseased  heart,  which  had  become  so  wretch- 
edly sore  that  the  continual  and  unavoidable  rubs  of  the 
world,  the  blow  of  an  enemy,  the  careless  jostle  of  a  stranger, 
and  even  the  faithful  and  loving  touch  of  a  friend,  alike 
made  ulcers  in  it.  As  is  the  habit  of  people  thus  afflicted, 
he  found  his  chief  employment  in  exhibiting  these  miser- 
able sores  to  any  one  who  would  give  themselves  the  pain 
259 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

of  viewing  them.  A  third  guest  was  a  hypochondriac, 
whose  imagination  wrought  necromancy  in  his  outward 
and  inward  world,  and  caused  him  to  see  monstrous  faces 
in  the  household  fire,  and  dragons  in  the  clouds  of  sunset, 
and  fiends  in  the  guise  of  beautiful  women,  and  something 
ugly  or  wicked  beneath  all  the  pleasant  surfaces  of  nature. 
His  neighbor  at  table  was  one  who,  in  his  early  youth,  had 
crusted  mankind  too  much,  and  hoped  too  highly  in  their 
behalf,  and,  in  meeting  with  disappointments,  had  become 
desperately  soured.   .  .  . 

One  other  guest  remains  to  be  described.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  smooth  brow,  fair  cheek,  and  fashionable 
mien.  So  far  as  his  exterior  developed  him,  he  might 
much  more  suitably  have  found  a  place  at  some  merry 
Christmas  table,  than  have  been  numbered  among  the 
blighted,  fate-stricken,  fancy-tortured  set  of  ill-starred 
banqueters.  Murmurs  arose  among  the  guests  as  they 
noted  the  glance  of  general  scrutiny  which  the  intruder 
threw  over  his  companions.  What  had  he  to  do  among 
them?  Why  did  not  the  skeleton  of  the  dead  founder 
of  the  feast  unbend  its  rattling  joints,  arise,  and  motion 
the  unwelcome  stranger  from  the  board?  ''Shameful!" 
said  the  morbid  man,  while  a  new  ulcer  broke  out  in  his 
heart.  "He  comes  to  mock  us!  —  we  shall  be  the  jest  of 
his  tavern  friends !  —  he  will  make  a  farce  of  our  miseries, 
and  bring  it  out  upon  the  stage!" 

"O,  never  mind  him!"  said  the  hypochondriac,  smiling 
sourly.  "He  shall  feast  from  yonder  tureen  of  viper  soup; 
and  if  there  is  a  fricassee  of  scorpions  on  the  table,  pray 
let  him  have  his  share  of  it.  For  the  dessert,  he  shall 
taste  the  apples  of  Sodom.  Then,  if  he  like  our  Christmas 
fare,  let  him  return  again  next  year!" 
260 


Christmas  Stories 

"Trouble  him  not,"  murmured  the  melancholy  man, 
with  gentleness.  ''What  matters  it  whether  the  con- 
sciousness of  misery  come  a  few  years  sooner  or  later? 
If  this  youth  deem  himself  happy  now,  yet  let  him  sit  with 
us  for  the  sake  of  the  wretchedness  to  come." 

The  poor  idiot  approached  the  young  man  with  that 
mournful  aspect  of  vacant  inquiry  which  his  face  con- 
tinually wore  and  which  caused  people  to  say  that  he  was 
always  in  search  of  his  missing  wits.  After  no  little  ex- 
amination he  touched  the  stranger's  hand,  but  immedi- 
ately drew  back  his  own,  shaking  his  head  and  shivering. 

"Cold,  cold,  cold!"  muttered  the  idiot. 

The  young  man  shivered  too,  and  smiled. 

"Gentlemen  —  and  you,  madam,"  said  one  of  the 
stewards  of  the  festival,  "do  not  conceive  so  ill  either 
of  our  caution  or  judgment,  as  to  imagine  that  we  have 
admitted  this  young  stranger  —  Gervayse  Hastings  by 
name  —  without  a  full  investigation  and  thoughtful  bal- 
ance of  his  claims.  Trust  me,  not  a  guest  at  the  table 
is  better  entitled  to  his  seat." 

The  steward's  guaranty  was  perforce  satisfactory.  The 
company,  therefore,  took  their  places,  and  addressed  them- 
selves to  the  serious  business  of  the  feast,  but  were  soon 
disturbed  by  the  hypochondriac,  who  thrust  back  his 
chair,  complaining  that  a  dish  of  stewed  toads  and  vipers 
was  set  before  him,  and  that  there  was  green  ditch  water 
in  his  cup  of  wine.  This  mistake  being  amended,  he 
quietly  resumed  his  seat.  The  wine,  as  it  flowed  freely 
from  the  sepulchral  urn,  seemed  to  come  imbued  with  all 
gloomy  inspirations;  so  that  its  influence  was  not  to  cheer, 
but  either  to  sink  the  revellers  into  a  deeper  melancholy, 
or  elevate  their  spirits  to  an  enthusiasm  of  wretchedness. 
261 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

The  conversation  was  various.  They  told  sad  stories 
about  people  who  might  have  been  worthy  guests  at  such 
a  festival  as  the  present.  They  talked  of  grisly  incidents 
in  human  history;  of  strange  crimes,  which,  if  truly  con- 
sidered, were  but  convulsions  of  agony;  of  some  lives 
that  had  been  altogether  wretched,  and  of  others,  which, 
wearing  a  general  semblance  of  happiness,  had  yet  been 
deformed,  sooner  or  later,  by  misfortune,  as  by  the  in- 
trusion of  a  grim  face  at  a  banquet ;  of  death-bed  scenes, 
and  what  dark  intimations  might  be  gathered  from  the 
words  of  dying  men;  of  suicide,  and  whether  the  more 
eligible  mode  were  by  halter,  knife,  poison,  drowning, 
gradual  starvation,  or  the  fumes  of  charcoal.  The  ma- 
jority of  the  guests,  as  is  the  custom  with  people  thoroughly 
and  profoundly  sick  at  heart,  were  anxious  to  make  their 
own  woes  the  theme  of  discussion,  and  prove  themselves 
most  excellent  in  anguish.  The  misanthropist  went  deep 
into  the  philosophy  of  evil,  and  wandered  about  in  the 
darkness,  with  now  and  then  a  gleam  of  discolored  light 
hovering  on  ghastly  shapes  and  horrid  scenery.  Many  a 
miserable  thought,  such  as  men  have  stumbled  upon  from 
age  to  age,  did  he  now  rake  up  again,  and  gloat  over  it 
as  an  inestimable  gem,  a  diamond,  a  treasure  far  pref- 
erable to  those  bright,  spiritual  revelations  of  a  better 
world,  which  are  like  precious  stones  from  heaven's  pave- 
ment. And  then,  amid  his  lore  of  wretchedness,  he  hid 
his  face  and  wept. 

******* 

The  banquet  drew  to  its  conclusion,   and  the  guests 

departed.     Scarcely  had  they  stepped  across  the  threshold 

of  the  hall,  when  the  scene  that  had  there  passed  seemed 

like  the  vision  of  a  sick  fancy,  or  an  exhalation  from  a 

262 


Christmas  Stones 

stagnant  heart.  Now  and  then,  however,  during  the  year 
that  ensued,  these  melancholy  people  caught  glimpses  of 
one  another,  transient,  indeed,  but  enough  to  prove  that 
they  walked  the  earth  with  the  ordinary  allotment  of 
reality.  Sometimes  a  pair  of  them  came  face  to  face, 
while  stealing  through  the  evening  twilight,  enveloped  in 
their  sable  cloaks.  Sometimes  they  casually  met  in  church- 
yards. Once,  also,  it  happened  that  two  of  the  dismal 
banqueters  mutually  started  at  recognizing  each  other 
in  the  noonday  sunshine  of  a  crowded  street,  stalking 
there  like  ghosts  astray.  Doubtless  they  wondered  why  the 
skeleton  did  not  come  abroad  at  noonday  too. 

But  whenever  the  necessity  of  their  affairs  compelled 
these  Christmas  guests  into  the  bustling  world,  they  were 
sure  to  encounter  the  young  man  who  had  so  unaccount- 
ably been  admitted  to  the  festival.  They  saw  him  among 
the  gay  and  fortunate;  they  caught  the  sunny  sparkle  of 
his  eye;  they  heard  the  light  and  careless  tones  of  his 
voice,  and  muttered  to  themselves  with  such  indignation 
as  only  the  aristocracy  of  wretchedness  could  kindle  — 
"The  traitor!  The  vile  impostor!  Providence,  in  its 
own  good  time,  may  give  him  a  right  to  feast  among  us!" 
But  the  young  man's  unabashed  eye  dwelt  upon  their 
gloomy  figures  as  they  passed  him,  seeming  to  say,  per- 
chance with  somewhat  of  a  sneer,  "First,  know  my  secret! 
—  then,  measure  your  claims  with  mine  !" 

The  step  of  Time  stole  onward,  and  soon  brought  merry 
Christmas  round  again,  with  glad  and  solemn  worship 
in  the  churches,  and  sports,  games,  festivals,  and  every- 
where the  bright  face  of  joy  beside  the  household  fire. 
Again  likewise  the  hall,  with  its  curtains  of  dusky  purple, 
was  illuminated  by  the  death  torches  gleaming  on  the 
263 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

sepulchral  decorations  of  the  banquet.  The  veiled  skeleton 
sat  in  state,  lifting  the  cypress  wreath  above  its  head,  as 
the  guerdon  of  some  guest  illustrious  in  the  qualifications 
'which  there  claimed  precedence.  As  the  stewards  deemed 
the  world  inexhaustible  in  misery,  and  were  desirous  of 
recognizing  it  in  all  its  forms,  they  had  not  seen  fit  to 
reassemble  the  company  of  the  former  year.  New  faces 
now  threw  their  gloom  across  the  table. 

There  was  a  man  of  nice  conscience,  who  bore  a  blood 
stain  in  his  heart  —  the  death  of  a  fellow-creature  —  which, 
for  his  more  exquisite  torture,  had  chanced  with  such  a 
peculiarity  of  circumstances,  that  he  could  not  absolutely 
determine  whether  his  will  had  entered  into  the  deed  or 
not.  Therefore,  his  whole  life  was  spent  in  the  agony 
of  an  inward  trial  for  murder,  with  a  continual  sifting 
of  the  details  of  his  terrible  calamity,  until  his  mind  had 
no  longer  any  thought,  nor  his  soul  any  emotion,  dis- 
connected with  it.  There  was  a  mother,  too  —  but  a 
desolation  now  —  who,  many  years  before,  had  gone  out 
on  a  pleasure  party,  and,  returning,  found  her  infant 
smothered  in  its  little  bed.  And  ever  since  she  has  been 
tortured  with  the  fantasy  that  her  buried  baby  lay  smother- 
ing in  its  coffin.  Then  there  was  an  aged  lady,  who  had 
lived  from  time  immemorial  with  a  constant  tremor  quiver- 
ing through  her  frame.  It  was  terrible  to  discern  her 
dark  shadow  tremulous  upon  the  wall;  her  lips,  likewise, 
were  tremulous;  and  the  expression  of  her  eye  seemed 
to  indicate  that  her  soul  was  trembling  too.  Owing  to 
the  bewilderment  and  confusion  which  made  almost  a 
chaos  of  her  intellect,  it  was  impossible  to  discover  what 
dire  misfortune  had  thus  shaken  her  nature  to  its  depths; 
so  that  the  stewards  had  admitted  her  to  the  table,  not 
264 


Christmas  Stories 

from  any  acquaintance  with  her  history,  but  on  the  safe 
testimony  of  her  miserable  aspect.  Some  surprise  was 
expressed  at  the  presence  of  a  bluff,  red-faced  gentleman, 
a  certain  Mr.  Smith,  who  had  evidently  the  fat  of  many 
a  rich  feast  within  him,  and  the  habitual  twinkle  of  whose 
eye  betrayed  a  disposition  to  break  forth  into  uproarious 
laughter  for  little  cause  or  none.  It  turned  out,  however, 
that  with  the  best  possible  flow  of  spirits,  our  poor  friend 
was  afflicted  with  a  physical  disease  of  the  heart,  which 
threatened  instant  death  on  the  slightest  cachinnatory 
indulgence,  or  even  that  titillation  of  the  bodily  frame 
produced  by  merry  thoughts.  In  this  dilemma  he  had 
sought  admittance  to  the  banquet,  on  the  ostensible  plea 
of  his  irksome  and  miserable  state,  but,  in  reality,  with 
the  hope  of  imbibing  a  life -preserving  melancholy.  .  .  . 

And  now  appeared  a  figure  which  we  must  acknowledge 
as  our  acquaintance  of  the  former  festival.  It  was  Ger- 
vayse  Hastings,  whose  presence  had  then  caused  so  much 
question  and  criticism,  and  who  now  took  his  place  with 
the  composure  of  one  whose  claims  were  satisfactory  to 
himself  and  must  needs  be  allowed  by  others.  Yet  his 
easy  and  unruffled  face  betrayed  no  sorrow.  The  well- 
skilled  beholders  gazed  a  moment  into  his  eyes  and  shook 
their  heads,  to  miss  the  unuttered  sympathy  —  the  counter- 
sign, never  to  be  falsified  —  of  those  whose  hearts  are 
cavern  mouths,  through  which  they  descend  into  a  region 
of  illimitable  woe  and  recognize  other  wanderers  there. 

"  Who  is  this  youth?  "  asked  the  man  with  a  blood  stain 
on  his  conscience.  *'  Surely  he  has  never  gone  down  into 
the  depths !  I  know  all  the  aspects  of  those  who  have 
passed  through  the  dark  valley.  By  what  right  is  he 
among  us?  " 

265 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"Ah,  it  is  a  sinful  thing  to  come  hither  without  a  sorrow," 
murmured  the  aged  lady,  in  accents  that  partook  of  the 
eternal  tremor  which  pervaded  her  whole  being.  "De- 
part, young  man !  Your  soul  has  never  been  shaken. 
I  tremble  so  much  the  more  to  look  at  you." 

"His  soul  shaken!  No;  I'll  answer  for  it,"  said  bluff 
Mr.  Smith,  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  mak- 
ing himself  as  melancholy  as  he  could,  for  fear  of  a  fatal 
explosion  of  laughter.  "I  know  the  lad  well;  he  has  as 
fair  prospects  as  any  young  man  about  town,  and  has  no 
more  right  among  us  miserable  creatures  than  the  child 
unborn.  He  never  was  miserable  and  probably  never 
will  be!" 

"Our  honored  guests,"  interposed  the  stewards,  "pray 
have  patience  with  us,  and  believe,  at  least,  that  our  deep 
veneration  for  the  sacredness  of  this  solemnity  would 
preclude  any  wilful  violation  of  it.  Receive  this  young 
man  to  your  table.  It  may  not  be  too  much  to  say,  that 
no  guest  here  would  exchange  his  own  heart  for  the  one 
that  beats  within  that  youthful  bosom!" 

"I'd  call  it  a  bargain,  and  gladly,  too,"  muttered  Mr. 
Smith,  with  a  perplexing  mixture  of  sadness  and  mirth- 
ful conceit.  "A  plague  upon  their  nonsense!  My  own 
heart  is  the  only  really  miserable  one  in  the  company; 
it  will  certainly  be  the  death  of  me  at  last." 

Nevertheless,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  the  judgment 
of  the  stewards  being  without  appeal,  the  company  sat 
down.  The  obnoxious  guest  made  no  more  attempt  to 
obtrude  his  conversation  on  those  about  him,  but  appeared 
to  listen  to  the  table  talk  with  peculiar  assiduity,  as  if  some 
inestimable  secret,  otherwise  beyond  his  reach,  might  be 
conveyed  in  a  casual  word.  And  in  truth,  to  those  who 
266 


Christmas   Stories 

could  understand  and  value  it,  there  was  rich  matter  in 
the  upgushings  and  outpourings  of  these  initiated  souls 
to  whom  sorrow  had  been  a  talisman,  admitting  them  into 
spiritual  depths  which  no  other  spell  can  open.  Some- 
times out  of  the  midst  of  densest  gloom  there  flashed  a 
momentary  radiance,  pure  as  crystal,  bright  as  the  flame 
of  stars,  and  shedding  such  a  glow  upon  the  mysteries  of 
life  that  the  guests  were  ready  to  exclaim,  "Surely  the 
riddle  is  on  the  point  of  being  solved!"  At  such  illumi- 
nated intervals  the  saddest  mourners  felt  it  to  be  revealed 
that  mortal  griefs  are  but  shadowy  and  external ;  no  more 
than  the  sable  robes  voluminously  shrouding  a  certain 
divine  reaUty  and  thus  indicating  what  might  otherwise 
be  altogether  invisible  to  mortal  eye. 

"Just  now,"  remarked  the  trembling  old  woman,  "I 
seemed  to  see  beyond  the  outside.  And  then  my  ever- 
lasting tremor  passed  away!" 

"Would  that  I  could  dwell  always  in  these  momentary 
gleams  of  light!"  said  the  man  of  stricken  conscience. 
"Then  the  blood  stain  in  my  heart  would  be  washed  clean 
away." 

This  strain  of  conversation  appeared  so  unintelligibly 
absurd  to  good  Mr.  Smith,  that  he  burst  into  precisely 
the  fit  of  laughter  which  his  physicians  had  warned  him 
against,  as  likely  to  prove  instantaneously  fatal.  In  effect, 
he  fell  back  in  his  chair  a  corpse,  with  a  broad  grin 
upon  his  face,  while  his  ghost,  perchance,  remained  beside 
it  bewildered  at  its  unpremeditated  exit.  This  catastrophe 
of  course  broke  up  the  festival. 

"How  is  this?  You  do  not  tremble?"  observed  the 
tremulous  old  woman  to  Gervayse  Hastings,  who  was 
gazing  at  the  dead  man  with  singular  intentness.  "Is 
267 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

it  not  awful  to  see  him  so  suddenly  vanish  out  of  the  midst 
of  life  —  this  man  of  flesh  and  blootl,  whose  earthly  nature 
was  so  warm  and  strong?  There  is  a  never-ending  tremor 
in  my  soul,  but  it  trembles  afresh  at  this!  And  you  are 
calm!" 

''Would  that  he  could  teach  me  somewhat  !"  said  Ger- 
vayse  Hastings,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "Men  pass  be- 
fore me  like  shadows  on  the  wall ;  their  actions,  passions, 
feelings  are  flickerings  of  the  light,  and  then  they  vanish ! 
Neither  the  corpse,  nor  yonder  skeleton,  nor  this  old  wo- 
man's everlasting  tremor,  can  give  me  what  I  seek." 

And  then  the  company  departed. 

We  cannot  linger  to  narrate,  in  such  detail,  more  circum- 
stances of  these  singular  festivals,  which  in  accordance 
with  the  founder's  will,  continued  to  be  kept  with  the  regu- 
larity of  an  established  institution.  In  process  of  time  the 
stewards  adopted  the  custom  of  inviting,  from  far  and  near, 
those  individuals  whose  misfortunes  were  prominent  above 
other  men's,  and  whose  mental  and  moral  development 
might,  therefore,  be  supposed  to  possess  a  corresponding 
interest.  The  exiled  noble  of  the  French  Revolution,  and 
the  broken  soldier  of  the  Empire,  were  alike  represented  at 
the  table.  Fallen  monarchs,  wandering  about  the  earth, 
have  found  places  at  that  forlorn  and  miserable  feast.  The 
statesman,  when  his  party  flung  him  off,  might,  if  he  chose 
it,  be  once  more  a  great  man  for  the  space  of  a  single  ban- 
quet. Aaron  Burr's  name  appears  on  the  record  at  a  period 
when  his  ruin  —  the  profoundest  and  most  striking,  with  more 
of  moral  circumstances  in  it  than  that  of  almost  any  other 
man — was  complete  in  his  lonely  age.  Stephen  Girard, 
when  his  wealth  weighed  upon  him  like  a  mountain,  once 
sought  admittance  of  his  own  accord.  It  is  not  probable, 
268 


Christmas  Stories 

however,  that  these  men  had  any  lesson  to  teach  in  the  lore 
of  discontent  and  misery  which  might  not  equally  well  have 
been  studied  in  the  common  walks  of  life.  Illustrious  un- 
fortunates attract  a  wider  sympathy,  not  because  their 
griefs  are  more  intense,  but  because,  being  set  on  lofty 
pedestals,  they  the  better  ser\^e  mankind  as  instances  and 
bywords  of  calamity. 

It  concerns  our  present  purpose  to  say  that,  at  each  suc- 
cessive festival,  Gervayse  Hastings  showed  his  face  gradu- 
ally changing  from  the  smooth  beauty  of  his  youth  to  the 
thoughtful  comeliness  of  manhood,  and  thence  to  the  bald, 
impressive  dignity  of  age.  He  was  the  only  individual  in- 
variably present.  Yet  on  every  occasion  there  were  mur- 
murs, both  from  those  who  knew  his  character  and  position, 
and  from  them  whose  hearts  shrank  back  as  denying  his 
companionship  in  their  mystic  fraternity. 

"Who  is  this  impassive  man  ?"  had  been  asked  a  hundred 
times.  ''Has  he  suffered?  Has  he  sinned?  There  are  no 
traces  of  either.     Then  wherefore  is  he  here  ?  " 

"You  must  inquire  of  the  stewards  or  of  himself,"  was 
the  constant  reply.  "We  seem  to  know  him  well  here  in 
our  city  and  know  nothing  of  him  but  what  is  creditable  and 
fortunate.  Yet  hither  he  comes,  year  after  year,  to  this 
gloomy  banquet,  and  sits  among  the  guests  like  a  marble 
statue.  Ask  yonder  skeleton ;  perhaps  that  may  solve  the 
riddle  I" 

It  was  in  truth  a  wonder.  The  life  of  Gervayse  Hastings 
was  not  merely  a  prosperous,  but  a  brilliant  one.  Every- 
thing had  gone  well  with  him.  He  was  wealthy,  far  beyond 
the  expenditure  that  was  required  by  habits  of  magnificence, 
a  taste  of  rare  purity  and  cultivation,  a  love  of  travel,  a 
scholar's  instinct  to  collect  a  splendid  library,  and,  more- 
269 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

over,  what  seemed  a  magnificent  liberality  to  the  distressed. 
He  had  sought  happiness,  and  not  vainly,  if  a  lovely  and 
tender  v^^ife,  and  children  of  fair  promise,  could  insure  it. 
He  had,  besides,  ascended  above  the  limit  which  separates 
the  obscure  from  the  distinguished,  and  had  won  a  stainless 
reputation  in  affairs  of  the  widest  public  importance.  Not 
that  he  was  a  popular  character,  or  had  within  him  the 
mysterious  attributes  which  are  essential  to  that  species  of 
success.  To  the  public  he  was  a  cold  abstraction,  wholly 
destitute  of  those  rich  hues  of  personality,  that  living 
warmth,  and  the  peculiar  faculty  of  stamping  his  own  heart's 
impression  on  a  multitude  of  hearts  by  which  the  people 
recognize  their  favorites.  And  it  must  be  owned  that,  after 
his  most  intimate  associates  had  done  their  best  to  know 
him  thoroughly,  and  love  him  warmly,  they  were  startled 
to  find  how  little  hold  he  had  upon  their  affections.  They 
approved,  they  admired,  but  still  in  those  moments  when 
the  human  spirit  most  craves  reality,  they  shrank  back  from 
Gervayse  Hastings,  as  powerless  to  give  them  what  they 
sought.  It  was  the  feeling  of  distrustful  regret  with  which 
we  should  draw  back  the  hand  after  extending  it,  in  an  illu- 
sive twilight,  to  grasp  the  hand  of  a  shadow  upon  the  wall. 
As  the  superficial  fervency  of  youth  decayed,  this  peculiar 
effect  of  Gervayse  Hastings's  character  grew  more  percep- 
tible. His  children,  when  he  extended  his  arms,  came 
coldly  to  his  knees,  but  never  climbed  them  of  their  own 
accord.  His  wife  wept  secretly,  and  almost  adjudged  her- 
self a  criminal  because  she  shivered  in  the  chill  of  his  bosom. 
He,  too,  occasionally  appeared  not  unconscious  of  the  chill- 
ness  of  his  moral  atmosphere,  and  willing,  if  it  might  be  so, 
to  warm  himself  at  a  kindly  fire.  But  age  stole  onward  and 
benumbed  him  more  and  more.  As  the  hoar-frost  began 
270 


Christmas  Stones 

to  gather  on  him  his  wife  went  to  her  grave,  and  was 
doubtless  warmer  there;  his  children  either  died  or  were 
scattered  to  different  homes  of  their  own;  and  old  Ger- 
vayse  Hastings,  unscathed  by  grief,  —  alone,  but  needing 
no  companionship,  —  continued  his  steady  walk  through  life, 
and  still  on  every  Christmas  day  attended  at  the  dismal 
banquet.  His  privilege  as  a  guest  had  become  prescriptive 
now.  Had  he  claimed  the  head  of  the  table,  even  the 
skeleton  would  have  been  ejected  from  its  seat. 

Finally,  at  the  merry  Christmas-tide,  when  he  had 
numbered  fourscore  years  complete,  this  pale,  high-browed, 
marble-featured  old  man  once  more  entered  the  long-fre- 
quented hall,  with  the  same  impassive  aspect  that  had  called 
forth  so  much  dissatisfied  remark  at  his  first  attendance. 
Time,  except  in  matters  merely  external,  had  done  nothing 
for  him,  either  of  good  or  evil.  As  he  took  his  place  he 
threw  a  calm,  inquiring  glance  around  the  table,  as  if  to 
ascertain  whether  any  guest  had  yet  appeared,  after  so  many 
unsuccessful  banquets,  who  might  impart  to  him  the 
mystery  —  the  deep,  warm  secret  —  the  life  within  the  life 
—  which,  whether  manifested  in  joy  or  sorrow,  is  what 
gives  substance  to  a  world  of  shadows. 

"My  friends,"  said  Gervayse  Hastings,  assuming  a  posi- 
tion which  his  long  conversance  with  the  festival  caused  to 
appear  natural,  "you  are  welcome  I  I  drink  to  you  all  in 
this  cup  of  sepulchral  wine." 

The  guests  replied  courteously,  but  still  in  a  manner  that 
proved  them  unable  to  receive  the  old  man  as  a  member  of 
their  sad  fraternity.  It  may  be  well  to  give  the  reader  an 
idea  of  the  present  company  at  the  banquet. 

One  was  formerly  a  clergyman,  enthusiastic  in  his  profes- 
sion, and  apparently  of  the  genuine  dynasty  of  those  old 
271 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

puritan  divines  whose  faith  in  their  calling,  and  stern 
exercise  of  it,  had  placed  them  among  the  mighty  of  the 
earth.  But  yielding  to  the  speculative  tendency  of  the  age, 
he  had  gone  astray  from  the  firm  foundation  of  an  ancient 
faith,  and  wandered  into  a  cloud  region,  where  everything 
was  misty  and  deceptive,  ever  mocking  him  with  a  semblance 
of  reality,  but  still  dissolving  when  he  flung  himself  upon  it 
for  support  and  rest.  His  instinct  and  early  training  de- 
manded something  steadfast;  but,  looking  forward,  he 
beheld  vapors  piled  on  vapors,  and  behind  him  an  im- 
passable gulf  between  the  man  of  yesterday  and  to-day,  on 
the  borders  of  which  he  paced  to  and  fro,  sometimes 
wringing  his  hands  in  agony,  and  often  making  his  own  woe 
a  theme  of  scornful  merriment.  This  surely  was  a  miser- 
able man.   .  .  . 

There  was  a  modern  philanthropist,  who  had  become 
so  deeply  sensible  of  the  calamities  of  thousands  and  mil- 
lions of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  of  the  impracticableness 
of  any  general  measures  for  their  relief,  that  he  had  no 
heart  to  do  what  little  good  lay  immediately  within  his 
power,  but  contented  himself  with  being  miserable  for 
sympathy.  Near  him  sat  a  gentleman  in  a  predicament 
hitherto  unprecedented,  but  of  which  the  present  epoch 
probably  affords  numerous  examples.  Ever  since  he  was 
of  capacity  to  read  a  newspaper  this  person  had  prided 
himself  on  his  consistent  adherence  to  one  political  party, 
but,  in  the  confusion  of  these  latter  days,  had  got  bewildered 
and  knew  not  whereabouts  his  party  was.  This  wretched 
condition,  so  morally  desolate  and  disheartening  to  a  man 
who  has  long  accustomed  himself  to  merge  his  individuality 
in  the  mass  of  a  great  body,  can  only  be  conceived  by  such  as 
have  experienced  it.  His  next  companion  was  a  popular 
272 


MADONNA   DELLA  SEDIA.    Raphael. 


Christmas  Stories 

orator  who  had  lost  his  voice,  and  —  as  it  was  pretty  much 
all  that  he  had  to  lose  —  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  hopeless 
melancholy.  The  table  was  likewise  graced  by  two  of  the 
gentler  sex  —  one,  a  half-starved,  consumptive  seamstress, 
the  representative  of  thousands  just  as  wretched;  the  other, 
a  woman  of  unemployed  energy,  who  found  herself  in  the 
world  with  nothing  to  achieve,  nothing  to  enjoy,  and  nothing 
even  to  suffer.  She  had,  therefore,  driven  herself  to  the 
verge  of  madness  by  dark  broodings  over  the  wrongs  of  her 
sex,  and  its  exclusion  from  a  proper  field  of  action.  .  .  . 

In  their  own  way,  these  were  as  wretched  a  set  of  people 
as  ever  had  assem.bled  at  the  festival.  There  they  sat,  with 
the  veiled  skeleton  of  the  founder  holding  aloft  the  cypress 
wreath,  at  one  end  of  the  table,  and  at  the  other,  wrapped  in 
furs,  the  withered  figure  of  Gervayse  Hastings,  stately,  calm, 
and  cold,  impressing  the  company  with  awe,  yet  so  little 
interesting  their  sympathy  that  he  might  have  vanished  into 
thin  air  without  their  once  exclaiming,  ''Whither  is  he 
gone?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  philanthropist,  addressing  the  old  man, 
"you  have  been  so  long  a  guest  at  this  annual  festival,  and 
have  thus  been  conversant  with  so  many  varieties  of  human 
affliction,  that,  not  improbably,  you  have  thence  derived 
some  great  and  important  lessons.  How  blessed  were  your 
lot  could  you  reveal  a  secret  by  which  all  this  mass  of  woe 
might  be  removed!" 

"I  know  of  but  one  misfortune,"  answered  Gervayse 
Hastings,  quietly,  "and  that  is  my  own." 

"Your  own!''  rejoined  the  philanthropist.  "And, 
looking  back  on  your  serene  and  prosperous  life,  how  can 
you  claim  to  be  the  sole  unfortunate  of  the  human  race?" 

"You  will  not  understand  it,"  replied  Gervayse  Hastings, 

T  273 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

feebly,  and  with  a  singular  inefficiency  of  pronunciation, 
and  sometimes  putting  one  word  for  another.  "None  have 
understood  it  —  not  even  those  who  experience  the  like.  It 
is  a  chillness  —  a  want  of  earnestness  —  a  feeling  as  if  what 
should  be  my  heart  were  a  thing  of  vapor  —  a  haunting  per- 
ception of  unreality !  Thus  seeming  to  possess  all  that  other 
men  have  —  all  that  other  men  aim  at  —  I  have  really 
possessed  nothing,  neither  joy  nor  griefs.  All  things,  all 
persons  —  as  was  truly  said  to  me  at  this  table  long  and 
long  ago  —  have  been  like  shadows  flickering  on  the  wall. 
It  was  so  with  my  wife  and  children  —  with  those  who 
seemed  my  friends:  it  is  so  with  yourselves,  whom  I  see 
now  before  me.  Neither  have  I  myself  any  real  existence, 
but  am  a  shadow  Hke  the  rest." 

"And  how  is  it  with  your  views  of  a  future  life?"  inquired 
the  speculative  clergyman. 

"Worse  than  with  you,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  hollow 
and  feeble  tone;  "for  I  cannot  conceive  it  earnestly  enough 
to  feel  either  hope  or  fear.  IMine  —  mine  is  the  wretched- 
ness !  This  cold  heart  —  this  unreal  life !  Ah  1  it  grows 
colder  still." 

It  so  chanced  that  at  this  juncture  the  decayed  ligaments 
of  the  skeleton  gave  way,  and  the  dry  bones  fell  together  in  a 
heap,  thus  causing  the  dusty  wreath  of  cypress  to  drop  upon 
the  table.  The  attention  of  the  company  being  thus  di- 
verted for  a  single  instant  from  Gervayse  Hastings,  they 
perceived,  on  turning  again  towards  him,  that  the  old  man 
had  undergone  a  change.  His  shadow  had  ceased  to 
flicker  on  the  wall. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 


274 


Christmas   Stories 

A  Christmas  Eve  in  Exile      ^^      <^      ^^      ^:^ 

TT  is  Christmas  Eve  in  a  large  city  of  Bavaria.  Along 
^  the  streets,  white  with  snow,  in  the  confusion  of  the 
fog,  am:ng  the  rattle  of  carriages  and  the  ringing  of  bells, 
the  crowd  hurries  joyously  towards  the  open-air  roast-meat 
shops,  the  holiday  stalls  and  booths.  Brushing  with  a  light 
rustling  sound  the  shops  decorated  with  ribbons  and 
flowers,  branches  of  green  holly  and  whole  spruce  trees 
covered  with  pendants  move  along  in  the  arms  of  passers-by, 
rising  above  all  the  heads,  like  a  shadow  of  the  Thuringian 
Forests,  a  touch  of  nature  in  the  artificial  life  of  winter. 
Night  is  falling.  Over  there,  behind  the  gardens  of  the 
"  Residence,"  one  sees  still  a  glow  of  the  setting  sun,  deep 
red  through  the  fog ;  and  throughout  the  city  there  is  such 
gayety,  so  many  festive  preparations,  that  every  light  that 
flames  up  at  a  window  seems  to  hang  on  a  Christmas  tree. 
But  this  is  no  ordinary  Christmas.  We  are  in  the  year  of 
Grace  1870;  and  the  birth  of  Christ  is  but  a  pretext  the 
more  to  drink  to  the  illustrious  Van  der  Than,  and  to  cele- 
brate the  triumph  of  Bavarian  arms.  Noel !  Noel !  Even 
the  Jews  in  the  lower  city  join  in  the  merriment.  There 
is  old  Augu.stus  Cahn,  turning  the  corner  at  "The  Blue 
Grape"  on  the  run.  Never  have  his  ferret-eyes  sparkled 
as  to-night.  Never  has  his  brush-like  queue  wriggled  so 
merrily.  On  his  sleeve,  worn  threadbare  by  the  cords  of 
his  wallet,  hangs  a  tidy  little  basket,  full  to  the  brim,  covered 
with  a  yellow  napkin,  with  the  neck  of  a  bottle  and  a  sprig 
of  holly  peeping  out. 

What  the  deuce  is  the  old  usurer  going  to  do  with  all  that  ? 
Is  he,  too,  going  to  celebrate  Christmas?     Will  he  gather 
together  his  friends,  his  family,  to  drink  to  the  German 
275 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Fatherland?  But  no.  Every  one  knows  well  that  old 
Cahn  has  no  Fatherland.  His  Fatherland  is  his  strong- 
box. He  has  neither  family  nor  friends;  nothing  but 
creditors.  His  sons,  his  associates  too,  left  three  months  ago 
with  the  army.  Down  there  behind  the  gun-carriages  of 
the  home  guard  they  ply  their  trade,  selling  brandy,  buying 
watches,  and  at  night,  after  a  battle,  going  out  to  rifle  the 
pockets  of  the  dead  and  to  empty  the  knapsacks  that  have 
fallen  in  the  trenches  by  the  way.  Father  Cahn,  too  old  to 
follow  his  children,  has  remained  in  Bavaria,  and  there  he 
does  a  magnificent  business  with  the  French  prisoners. 
Always  prowling  about  the  barracks,  it  is  he  who  buys 
watches,  medals,  money-orders.  One  sees  him  gliding 
through  the  hospitals  and  among  the  ambulances.  He 
approaches  the  bedside  of  the  wounded  and  asks  them  very 
softly  in  his  hideous  gibberish:  — 

"Haf  you  anydings  to  zell?" 

Look !  At  this  very  moment,  when  you  see  him  trotting 
so  briskly  with  his  basket  under  his  arm,  it  is  because  the 
Military  Hospital  closes  at  five  o'clock;  and  there  are  two 
Frenchmen  waiting  up  there  in  that  big  black  building,  with 
its  narrow-barred  windows,  where  Christmas  to  illumine  its 
coming  has  only  the  pale  lights  which  guard  the  bedside  of 
the  dying.  .  .  . 

These  two  Frenchmen  are  Salvette  and  Bernadou. 
They  are  infantrymen,  two  Provencals  of  the  same  village, 
enrolled  in  the  same  battalion,  and  wounded  by  the  same 
shell.  Only,  Salvette  is  the  stronger;  and  already  he 
begins  to  get  up,  to  make  some  steps  from  his  bed  to  the 
window.  Bernadou,  for  his  part,  will  not  recover.  Be- 
tween the  wan  curtains  of  his  hospital  cot  his  face  looks 
thinner,  more  languid,  day  by  day ;  and  when  he  speaks  of 
276 


Christmas  Stones 

his  country,  of  the  return,  it  is  with  the  sad  smile  of  the 
invalid,  in  which  there  is  more  of  resignation  than  of  hope. 
Nevertheless,  to-day  he  is  a  little  animated,  thinking  of 
the  beautiful  Christmas  festival,  which  in  our  Provencal 
country  seems  like  a  great  bonfire  lighted  in  the  midst  of 
winter,  recalling  the  midnight  mass,  the  church  decorated, 
glowing  with  light,  the  dark  village  streets  filled  with  people, 
then  the  long  watch  about  the  table,  the  three  traditional 
torches,  the  ''aioli,"  ^  the  snails,  and  the  pretty  ceremony  of 
the  Yule  log,  which  the  grandfather  carries  about  the  house, 
and  anoints  with  steaming  wine. 

"Ah!  my  poor  Salvette,  what  a  sad  Christmas  we  are 
going  to  have  this  year !  .  .  .  If  we  only  had  enough  to 
buy  a  white  roll  and  a  bottle  of  claret !  .  .  .  How  happy  I 
would  be  if,  once  more,  before  taps  sound  for  me,  I  could 
drink  with  you  over  the  Yule  log!" 

The  sick  man's  eyes  brighten  as  he  speaks  of  the  wine 
and  the  white  bread.  But  how  is  it  to  be  done?  They 
have  nothing  left  —  poor  fellows !  —  no  money,  no  watch. 
To  be  sure,  Salvette  still  keeps  in  the  lining  of  his  jacket  a 
money-order  for  forty  francs.  But  that  is  for  the  day  when 
they  shall  be  free;  for  the  first  halt  that  they  make  in  a 
French  inn.  That  money  is  sacred.  No  way  to  touch  that. 
But  poor  Bernadou  is  so  ill !  Who  knows  if  he  will  ever  be 
able  to  take  up  the  journey  home?  And  since  here  is  a 
beautiful  Christmas  which  they  can  still  celebrate  together, 
were  it  not  best  to  profit  by  it? 

So,  without  a  word  to  his  countryman,  Salvette  rips  open 
his  tunic,  takeaout  the  order,  and  when  old  Cahn  has  come, 
as  every  morning,  to  make  his  round  in  the  halls,  after  long 

^  A  maj'onnaise  sauce  richly  flavored  with  garlic. 
277 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

arguments  and  whispered  discussions  he  sh"ps  into  the  old 
Jew's  hand  this  square  of  paper,  yellowed  and  stiff,  smelling 
of  powder,  and  stained  with  blood.  From  that  moment 
Salvette  rhaintains  an  air  of  mystery.  He  rubs  his  hands 
and  laughs  to  himself  as  he  looks  at  Bernadou.  And  now, 
as  day  falls,  he  is  there  on  watch,  his  forehead  pressed 
against  the  narrow  panes  until  he  sees,  in  the  dusk  of  the 
deserted  courtyard,  old  Augustus  Cahn,  ail  out  of  breath,  a 
little  basket  on  his  arm. 

This  solemn  midnight,  which  sounds  from  all  the  bells  of 
the  city,  falls  mournfully  in  this  white  camp  of  suffering. 
The  hospital  ward  is  silent,  lighted  only  by  the  night  lamps 
hung  from  the  ceiling.  Great  wandering  shadows  float 
over  the  beds  and  the  bare  walls,  with  an  incessant  vibration 
which  seems  the  oppressed  breathing  of  all  the  sufferers 
stretched  out  there.  At  moments  dreams  talk  aloud,  night- 
mares groan,  while  from  the  street  rises  a  vague  murmur, 
steps  and  voices,  confused  in  the  cold,  resonant  air  as  if 
under  the  porch  of  a  cathedral.  One  feels  the  devout  hast- 
ening, the  mystery  of  a  religious  festival,  intruding  upon 
the  hour  of  sleep  and  throwing  upon  the  darkened  city 
the  dim  light  of  lanterns  and  the  glow  of  church  win- 
dows. 

"Art  thou  asleep,  Bernadou?"  .  .  . 

Very  gently,  on  the  little  table  near  his  friend's  bed, 
Salvette  has  placed  a  bottle  of  Lunel  wine  and  a  round  loaf 
—  a  comely  Christmas  loaf,  in  which  the  sprig  of  holly  is 
planted  upright.  The  sick  man  opens  eyes  darkly  rimmed 
with  fever.  In  the  uncertain  light  of  the  night  lamps  and 
under  the  white  reflection  of  the  great  roofs  where  the  moon 
shines  dazzling  upon  the  snow,  this  improvised  Christmas 
seems  to  him  a  phantasy. 

278 


Christmas  Stories 

"Come,  comrade,  wake  up !  .  .  .  It  shall  not  be  said 
that  two  Provencals  let  Christmas  Eve  pass  without  toasting 
it  in  a  cup  of  claret."  .  .  .  And  Salvette  raises  him  with  a 
mother's  tenderness.  He  fills  the  glasses,  cuts  the  bread; 
and  they  drink,  and  talk  of  Provence.  Little  by  little 
Bernadou  rouses,  becomes  tender.  .  .  .  The  wine,  the 
recalling  of  old  days.  .  .  .  With  the  childish  spirit  which 
comes  again  to  the  sick  in  their  weakness,  he  asks  Salvette 
to  sing  a  Christmas  carol  of  Provence.  His  comrade  asks 
nothing  better. 

"Come!  Which  one  do  you  want?  'The  Host'? 
'The  Three  Kings'?  or  'Saint  Joseph  Said  to  Me'?" 

"No.  I  love  better  'The  Shepherds.'  The  one  we  al- 
ways sang  at  home." 

"'The  Shepherds'  let  it  be."  In  a  low  voice,  his  head 
between  the  curtains,  Salvette  begins  to  hum.  But  sud- 
denly, as  he  sings  the  last  couplet,  where  the  shepherds, 
coming  to  see  Jesus  in  his  stable,  have  laid  their  offerings  of 
fresh  eggs  and  cheese  in  the  manger,  and  are  dismissed  in 
kindly  fashion :  — 

"Joseph  leur  dit:   Allons  I  soyez  bien  sages, 
Tournez-vous-en  et  faites  bon  voyage. 
Bergers, 
Prenez  votre  conge,  .  .  ." 

poor  Bernadou  slips  and  falls  heavily  upon  his  pillow.  His 
comrade,  thinking  he  sleeps,  calls  him,  shakes  him.  But 
the  sick  man  remains  motionless;  and  the  little  sprig  of 
holly  across  the  stiff  coverlet  seems  already  the  green  palm 
that  is  laid  on  the  pillow  of  the  dead. 

Salvette  understands.     Then,  all  in  tears,  and  a  little 
intoxicated  with  the  feast  and  with  so  great  a  sorrow,  he 
279 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

takes  up  again  in  full  voice,  in  the  silence  of  the  ward,  the 
joyous  refrain  of  Provence ;  — 

"Shepherds, 
Take  your  leave  T" 

Alphonse  Daudet 


The  Rehearsal  of  the  Mummers'  Play     ^^      <::^ 

T^HEN  fell  the  great  first  rehearsal  of  the  Christmas 
-^  play,  and  Dennis  Masterman  found  that  he  had  been 
wise  to  take  time  by  the  forelock  in  this  matter.  The  mum- 
mers assembled  in  the  parish  room,  and  the  vicar  and  his 
sister,  with  Nathan  Baskerville's  assistance,  strove  to  lead 
them  through  the  drama. 

''It's  not  going  to  be  quite  like  the  version  that  a  kind 
friend  has  sent  me,  and  from  which  your  parts  are  written," 
explained  Dennis.  "I've  arranged  for  an  introduction  in 
the  shape  of  a  prologue.  I  shall  do  this  myself,  and  ap- 
pear before  the  curtain  and  speak  a  speech  to  explain  what 
it  is  all  about.  This  answers  Mr.  Waite  here,  who  is  going 
to  be  the  Turkish  Knight.  He  didn't  want  to  begin  the 
piece.  Now  I  shall  have  broken  the  ice,  and  then  he  will 
be  discovered  as  the  curtain  rises." 

Mr.  Timothy  Waite  on  this  occasion,  however,  began 
proceedings,  as  the  vicar's  prologue  was  not  yet  written. 
He  proved  letter-perfect,  but  exceedingly  nervous. 

"Open  your  doors  and  let  me  in, 
I  hope  your  favours  I  shall  win. 
Whether  I  rise  or  whether  I  fall, 
I'll  do  my  best  to  please  j'ou  all!" 
280 


Christmas  Stories 

Mr.  Waite  spoke  jerkily,  and  his  voice  proved  a  little  out 
of  control,  but  everybody  congratulated  him. 

"How  he  rolls  his  eyes  to  be  sure,"  said  Vivian  Baskerville. 
"A  very  daps  of  a  Turk,  for  sartain." 

"  You  ought  to  stride  about  more,  Waite,"  suggested  Ned 
Baskerville,  who  had  cheered  up  of  recent  days,  and  was 
now  standing  beside  Cora  and  other  girls  destined  to  assist 
the  play.  "The  great  thing  is  to  stride  about  and  look  alive 
—  isn't  it,  Mr.  Masterman?" 

"We'll  talk  afterwards,"  answered  Dennis.  "We 
mustn't  interfere  with  the  action.  You  have  got  your 
speech  ofif  very  well,  Waite,  but  you  said  it  much  too  fast. 
We  must  be  slow  and  distinct  so  that  not  a  word  is  missed." 

Timothy,  who  enjoyed  the  praise  of  his  friends,  liked 
this  censure  less. 

"As  for  speaking  fast,"  he  said,  "the  man  would  speak 
fast.  Because  he  expects  St .  George  will  be  on  his  tail  in  a 
minute.  He  says,  'I  know  he'll  pierce  my  skin.'  In  fact, 
he's  pretty  well  sweating  with  terror  from  the  first  moment 
he  comes  on  the  stage,  I  should  reckon." 

But  Mr.  Masterman  was  unprepared  for  any  such  subtle 
rendering  of  the  Turkish  Knight,  and  he  only  hoped  that 
the  more  ancient  play-actors  would  not  come  armed  with 
equally  obstinate  opinions. 

"We'll  talk  about  it  afterwards,"  he  said.  "Now  you 
go  off  to  the  right,  Waite,  and  Father  Christmas  comes  on  at 
the  left.     Mr.  Baskerville  —  Father  Christmas,  please." 

Nathan  put  his  part  into  his  pocket,  marched  on  to  the 
imaginary  stage  and  bowed.     Everybody  cheered. 

"You  needn't  bow,"  explained  Dennis ;  but  the  inn- 
keeper differed  from  him. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must,  your  reverence.  When  I  appear 
281 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

before  them,  the  people  will  give  me  a  lot  of  applause  in 
their  usual  kindly  fashion.  Why,  even  these  here  —  just 
t'other  actors  do,  you  see  —  so  you  may  be  sure  that  the 
countryside  will.  Therefore  I  had  better  practise  the  bow 
at  rehearsal,  if  you've  no  great  argument  against  it." 

"All  right,  push  on,"  said  Dennis. 

"We  must  really  be  quicker,"  declared  Miss  Masterman. 
"Half  an  hour  has  gone,  and  we've  hardly  started." 

"Off  I  go,  then;  and  I  want  you  chaps  —  especially  you, 
Vivian,  and  you.  Jack  Head,  and  you,  Tom  Gollop  —  to 
watch  me  acting.  Acting  ban't  the  same  as  ordinary 
talking.  If  I  was  just  talking,  I  should  say  all  quiet,  with- 
out flinging  my  arms  about,  and  walking  round,  and  stop- 
ping, and  then  away  again.  But  in  acting  you  do  all  these 
things,  and  instead  of  merely  saying  your  speeches,  as  we 
would  just  man  to  man,  over  my  bar  or  in  the  street,  you 
have  to  bawl  'em  out  so  that  every  soul  in  the  audience 
catches  'em." 

Having  thus  explained  his  theory  of  histrionics,  Mr. 
Baskerville  started,  and  with  immense  and  original  empha- 
sis, and  sudden  actions  and  gestures,  introduced  himself. 

"Here  come  I,  the  dear  old  Father  Christmas. 

Welcome  or  welcome  not, 
I  hope  old  Father  Christmas 

Will  never  be  forgot. 
A  room  —  make  room  here,  gallant  boys,. 

And  give  us  room  to  rhyme  ..." 

Nathan  broke  off  to  explain  his  reading  of  the  part. 

"When  I  say  'make  room'  I  fly  all  round  the  stage,  as  if  I 
was  pushing  the  people  back  to  give  me  room." 

He  finished  his  speech,  and  panted  and  mopped  his  head. 
282 


Christmas  Stories 

"That's  acting,  and  whatd'you  think  of  it?"  he  asked. 

They  all  applauded  vigorously  excepting  Mr.  Gollop,  who 
now  prepared  to  take  his  part. 

Nathan  then  left  the  stage  and  the  vicar  called  him  back. 

"You  don't  go  off,"  he  explained.  "You  stop  to  welcome 
the  King  of  Egypt." 

"Beg  pardon,"  answered  the  innkeeper.  " But  of  course, 
so  it  is.     I'll  take  my  stand  here." 

"You  bow  to  the  King  of  Egypt  when  he  comes  on," 
declared  Gollop.  "He  humbly  bows  to  me,  don't  he, 
reverend  Masterman?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dennis,  "he  bows,  of  course.  You'll  have  a 
train  carried  by  two  boys,  Gollop;  but  the  boys  aren't  here 
to-night,  as  they're  both  down  with  measles  —  Mrs. 
Bassett's  youngsters." 

"I'll  bow  to  you  if  you  bow  to  me,  Tom,"  said  Mr. 
Baskerville.     "That's  only  right." 

"Kings  don't  bow  to  common  people,"  declared  the 
parish  clerk.  "Me  and  my  pretended  darter  —  that's 
Miss  Cora  Lintern,  who's  the  Princess  —  ban't  going  to 
bow,  I  should  hope." 

"You  ought  to,  then,"  declared  Jack  Head.  "No  reason 
because  you'm  King  of  Egypt  why  you  should  think  your- 
self better  than  other  folk.  Make  him  bow,  Nathan. 
Don't  you  bow  to  him  if  he  don't  bow  to  you." 

"Kings  do  bow,"  declared  Dennis.  "You  must  bow  to 
Father  Christmas,  Gollop." 

"He  must  bow  first,  then,"  argued  the  parish  clerk. 

"Damn  the  man!  turn  him  out  and  let  somebody  else 
do  it!"  cried  Head. 

"Let  neither  of  *em  bow,"  suggested  Mrs.  Hacker 
suddenly.  "With  all  this  here  bowing  and  scraping,  us 
283 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

shan't  be  done  afore  midnight;  and  I  don't  come  in  the 
play  till  the  end  of  all  things  as  'tis." 

"You'd  better  decide,  your  reverence,"  suggested 
Vivian.  "Your  word's  law.  I  say  let  'em  bow  simultane- 
ous —  how  would  that  serve?" 

"Excellent!"  declared  Dennis.  "You'll  bow  together, 
please.     Now,  Mr.  Gollop." 

Thomas  marched  on  with  amazing  gait,  designed  to  be 
regal. 

"They'll  all  laugh  if  you  do  it  like  that,  Tom,"  com- 
plained Mr.  Voysey. 

"  Beggar  the  man !  And  why  for  shouldn't  they  laugh ?  " 
asked  Jack  Head.  "Thomas  don't  want  to  make  'em  cry, 
do  he  ?  Ban't  we  all  to  be  as  funny  as  ever  we  can,  reverend 
Masterman?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dennis.  "In  reason  —  in  reason.  Jack. 
But  acting  is  one  thing,  and  playing  the  fool  is  another." 

"Oh,  Lord!     I  thought  they  was  the  same,"  declared 

Vivian  Baskerville.     "Because  if  I've  got  to  act  the  giant 

>) 

"Order!  order!"  cried  the  clergyman,  "We  must  get 
on.  Don't  be  annoyed,  Mr.  Baskerville,  I  quite  see  your 
point;  but  it  will  all  come  right  at  rehearsal." 

"  You'll  have  to  tell  me  how  to  act  then,"  said  Vivian. 
"How  the  mischief  can  a  man  pretend  to  be  what  he  isn't? 
A  giant " 

"You're  as  near  being  a  live  giant  as  you  can  be,"  de- 
clared Nathan.  "You've  only  got  to  be  yourself  and  you'll 
be  all  right." 

"No,"  argued  Jack  Head.  "If  the  man's  himself,  he's 
not  funny,  and  nobody  will  laugh.     I  say " 

"You  can  show  us  what  you  mean  when  you  come  to 
284 


Christmas  Stories 

your  own  part,  Jack,"  said  Dennis  desperately.  "Do  get 
on,  Gollop." 

"Bow  then,"  said  Mr.  Gollop  to  Nathan. 

"I'll  bow  when  you  do,  and  not  a  minute  sooner," 
answered  the  innkeeper  firmly. 

The  matter  of  the  bow  was  arranged,  and  Mr.  Gollop,  in 
the  familiar  voice  with  which  he  had  led  the  psalms  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  began  his  part. 

"Here  I,  the  King  of  Egypt,  boldly  do  appear, 
St.  Garge !  St.  Garge !  walk  in,  my  only  son  and  heir; 
Walk  in,  St.  Garge,  my  son,  and  boldly  act  thy  part, 
That  all  the  people  here  may  see  thy  wondrous  art!" 

"Well  done,  Tom!"  said  Mr.  Masterman,  "that's 
splendid;  but  you  mustn't  sing  it." 

"I  ban't  singing  it,"  answered  the  clerk.  "I  know  what 
to  do." 

"Allright.    Now,  St.  George,  St. George,  where  are  you?" 

"Along  with  the  girls,  as  usual,"  snapped  Mr.  Gollop. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Ned  Baskerville  was  engaged  in  deep 
conversation  with  Princess  Sabra  and  the  Turkish  Knight. 
He  left  them  and  hurried  forward. 

"Give  tongue,  Ned !"  cried  his  father. 

"You  walk  down  to  the  footlights,  and  the  King  of 
Egypt  will  be  on  one  side  of  you  and  Father  Christmas  on 
the  other,"  explained  the  vicar. 

"And  you  needn't  look  round  for  the  females,  'cause  they 
don't  appear  till  later  on,"  added  Jack  Head. 

A  great  laugh  followed  this  jest,  whereon  Miss  Master- 
man  begged  her  brother  to  try  and  keep  order. 

"If  they  are  not  going  to  be  serious,  we  had  better  give 
it  up,  and  waste  no  more  time,"  she  said. 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"Don't  take  it  like  that,  miss,  I  beg  of  you,"  urged 
Nathan.  "All's  prospering  very  well.  We  shall  shape 
down.     Go  on,  Ned." 

Ned  looked  at  his  part,  then  put  it  behind  his  back,  and 
then  brought  it  out  again. 

"This  is  too  bad,  Baskerville,"  complained  Dennis. 
"You  told  me  yesterday  that  you  knew  every  word." 

"So  I  did  yesterday,  I'll  swear  to  it.  I  said  it  out  in  the 
kitchen  after  supper  to  mother  —  didn't  I,  father?" 

"You  did,"  assented  Vivian;  "but  that's  no  use  if  you've 
forgot  it  now." 

"'Tis  stage  fright,"  explained  Nathan.  "You'll  get 
over  it." 

"Think  you'm  talking  to  a  maiden,"  advised  Jack 
Head. 

"Do  get  on!"  cried  Dennis.  Then  he  prompted  the 
faulty  mummer. 

"  Here  come  I,  St.  George " 

Ned  struck  an  attitude  and  started. 

"Here  come  I,  St.  George;   from  Britain  did  I  spring; 
I'll  fight  the  Russian  Bear,  my  wonders  to  begin. 
I'll  pierce  him  through,  he  shall  not  fly; 
I'll  cut  him  —  cut  him  —  cut  him " 

"How  does  it  go?" 

"'I'll  cut  him  down,'  "  prompted  Dennis. 

"Right!" 

"  I'll  cut  him  down,  or  else  I'll  die." 

"Good!     Now,  come  on.  Bear!''  said  Nathan. 

"You  and  Jack  Head  will  have  to  practise  the  fight," 
explained  the  vicar;  "and  at  this  point,  or  earlier,  the 
ladies  will  march  in  to  music  and  take  their  places,  because, 
286 


Christmas  Stories 

of  course,  'fair  Sabra'  has  to  see  St.  George  conquer  his 
foes." 

"That'll  suit  Ned  exactly!"  laughed  Nathan. 

Then  he  marshalled  Cora  and  several  other  young  women, 
including  May  and  Polly  Baskerville  from  Cadworthy,  and 
Cora's  sister  PhyUis. 

*' There  will  be  a  dais  lifted  up  at  the  back,  you  know 
—  that's  a  raised  platform.  But  for  the  present  you  must 
pretend  these  chairs  are  the  throne.  You  sit  by  'fair 
Sabra,'  Thomas,  and  then  the  trumpets  sound  and  the 
Bear  comes  on." 

"Who'll  play  the  brass  music?"  asked  Head,  "because 
I've  got  a  very  clever  friend  at  Sheepstor " 

"Leave  all  that  to  me.  The  music  is  arranged.  Now, 
come  on!" 

"Shall  you  come  on  and  play  it  like  a  four-footed  thing, 
or  get  up  on  your  hind-legs,  Jack?"  asked  St.  George. 

"I  be  going  to  come  in  growhng  and  yowling  on  all 
fours,"  declared  Mr.  Head  grimly.  "  Then  I  be  going  to  do 
a  sort  of  a  comic  bear  dance ;  then  I  be  going  to  have  a 
bit  of  fun  eating  a  plum  pudding ;  then  I  thought  that  me 
and  Mr.  Nathan  might  have  a  bit  of  comic  work ;  and  then 
I  should  get  up  on  my  hind-legs  and  go  for  St.  George." 

"You  can't  do  all  that,"  declared  Dennis.  "Not  that  I 
want  to  interfere  with  you,  or  anybody.  Head ;  but  if  each 
one  is  going  to  work  out  his  part  and  put  such  a  lot  into  it, 
we  shall  never  get  done." 

"The  thing  is  to  make  'em  laugh,  reverend  Masterman," 
answered  Jack  with  firmness.  "If  I  just  come  on  and  just 
say  my  speech,  and  fight  and  die,  there's  nought  in  it;  but 
if " 

"Go  on,  then  —  go  on.     We'll  talk  afterwards." 
287 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"Right.  Now  you  try  not  to  laugh,  souls,  and  I  wager 
I'll  make  you  giggle  like  a  lot  of  zanies,"  promised  Jack. 

Then  he  licked  his  hands,  went  down  upon  them,  and 
scrambled  along  upon  all  fours. 

"  Good  for  you,  Jack !  Well  done !  You'm  funnier  than 
anything  that's  gone  afore !"  cried  Joe  Voysey. 

"So  you  be,  for  certain,"  added  Mrs.  Hacker. 

"For  all  the  world  like  my  bob-tailed  sheep-dog," 
declared  Mr.  Waite. 

"Now  I  be  going  to  sit  up  on  my  hams  and  scratch  myself," 
explained  Mr.  Head;  "then  off  I  go  again  and  have  a  sniff 
at  Father  Christmas.  Then  you  ought  to  give  me  a  plum 
pudding,  Mr.  Baskerville,  and  I  balance  it  'pon  my  nose." 

"Well  thought  on!"  declared  Nathan.  "So  I  will. 
'Twill  make  the  folk  die  of  laughing  to  see  you." 

"Come  on  to  the  battle,"  said  Dennis. 

"Must  be  a  sort  of  wrashn'  fight,"  continued  Head, 
"because  the  Bear's  got  nought  but  his  paws.  Then,  I 
thought  when  I'd  thro  wed  St.  George  a  fair  back  heel,  he'd 
get  up  and  draw  his  shining  sword  and  stab  me  in  the  guts. 
Then  I'd  roar  and  roar,  till  the  place  fairly  echoed  round, 
and  then  I'd  die  in  frightful  agony." 

"You  ban't  the  whole  play.  Jack,"  said  Mr.  Gollop  with 
much  discontent.  "You  forget  yourself,  surely.  You 
can't  have  the  King  of  Egypt  and  these  here  other  high 
characters  all  standing  on  the  stage  doing  nought  while 
you'm  going  through  these  here  vagaries." 

But  Mr.  Head  stuck  to  his  text. 

"We'm  here  to  make  'em  laugh,"  he  repeated  with  bull- 
dog determination.  "And  I'll  do  it  if  mortal  man  can  do  it. 
Then,  when  I've  took  the  doctor's  stuff,  up  I  gets  again  and 
goes  on  funnier  than  ever." 

288 


Christmas  Stories 

"I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  money,  Jack,"  declared  Vivian 
Baskerville.  ''Such  a  clever  chap  as  you  be,  and  none  of  us 
ever  knowed  it.  You  ought  to  go  for  Tom  Fool  to  the 
riders.  1  lay  you'd  make  tons  more  money  than  ever  you 
will  to  Trowlesworthy  Warren." 

"By  the  vv^ay,  who  is  to  be  the  Doctor?"  asked  Ned 
Baskerville.     '"Twasn't  settled,  Mr.  Masterman." 

Dennis  collapsed  blankly. 

"By  Jove!  No  more  it  was,"  he  admitted,  "and  I've 
forgotten  all  about  it.  The  Doctor's  very  important,  too. 
We  must  have  him  before  the  next  rehearsal.  For  the 
present  you  can  read  it  out  of  the  book,  Mark." 

Mark  Baskerville  was  prompting,  and  now,  after  St. 
George  and  the  Bear  had  made  a  pretence  of  wrestling,  and 
the  Bear  had  perished  with  much  noise  and  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  loud  laughter,  Mark  read  the  Doctor's 
somewhat  arrogant  pretensions. 

"All  sorts  of  diseases  — 
Whatever  you  pleases : 
The  phthisic,  the  palsy,  the  gout, 
If  the  Devil's  in,  I  blow  him  out. 

"I  carry  a  bottle  of  alicampane, 
Here,  Russian  Bear,  take  a  little  of  my  flip-flap, 
Pour  it  down  thy  tip-tap; 
Rise  up  and  fight  again !" 

"Well  said,  Mark!  'Twas  splendidly  given.  Why  for 
shouldn't  Mark  be  Doctor?"  asked  Nathan. 

"An  excellent  idea,"  declared  Dennis.  "I'm  sure  now, 
if  the  fair  Queen  Sabra  will  only  put  in  a  word " 

Mark's  engagement  was  known.     The  people  clapped 
their  hands  heartily  and  Cora  blushed. 
u  289 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"I  wish  he  would,"  said  Cora. 

"Your  wish  ought  to  be  his  law,"  declared  Ned.  "Fm 
sure  if  'twas  me " 

But  Mark  shook  his  head. 

"I  couldn't  do  it,"  he  answered.  "I  would  if  I  could; 
but  when  the  time  came,  and  the  people,  and  the  excitement 
of  it  all,  I  should  break  down,  I'm  sure  I  should." 

"It's  past  ten  o'clock,"  murmured  Miss  Masterman  to 
her  brother. 

The  rehearsal  proceeded:  Jack  Head,  as  the  Bear,  was 
restored  to  life  and  slain  again  with  much  detail.  Then  Ned 
proceeded  — 

"I  fought  the  Russian  Bear 
And  brought  him  to  the  slaughter; 
By  that  I  won  fair  Sabra, 
The  King  of  Egypt's  daughter. 
Where  is  the  man  that  now  will  me  defy? 
I'll  cut  his  giblets  full  of  holes  and  make  his  buttons  fly." 

"And  when  I've  got  my  sword,  of  course  'twill  be  much 
finer,"  concluded  Ned. 

Mr.  Gollop  here  raised  an  objection. 

"I  don't  think  the  man  ought  to  tell  about  cutting  any- 
body's giblets  full  of  holes,"  he  said;  "no,  nor  yet  making 
their  buttons  fly.  'Tis  very  coarse,  and  the  gentlefolks 
wouldn't  like  it." 

"Nonsense,  Tom,"  answered  the  vicar,  "it's  all  in  keep- 
ing with  the  play.     There's  no  harm  in  it  at  all." 

"Evil  be  to  them  as  evil  think,"  said  Jack  Head.  "Now 
comes  the  song,  reverend  Masterman,  and  I  was  going  to 
propose  that  the  Bear,  though  he's  dead  as  a  nit,  rises  up  on 
his  front  paws  and  sings  with  the  rest,  then  drops  down 
again  —  eh,  souls?" 

290 


Christmas  Stories 

"They'll  die  of  laughing  if  you  do  that,  Jack,"  declared 
Vivian.     *' I  vote  for  it." 

But  Dennis  firmly  refused  permission  and  addressed  his 
chorus. 

"Now,  girls,  the  song  —  everbody  joins.  The  other 
songs  are  not  written  yet,  so  we  need  not  bother  about  them 
till  next  time." 

The  girls,  glad  of  something  to  do,  sang  vigorously,  and 
the  song  went  well.  Then  the  Turkish  Knight  was  duly 
slain,  restored  and  slain  again. 

"We  can't  finish  to-night,"  declared  Dennis,  looking  at 
his  watch,  "so  I'm  sorry  to  have  troubled  you  to  come, 
Mrs.  Hacker,  and  you,  Voysey." 

"They  haven't  wasted  their  time,  however,  because  Head 
and  I  have  showed  them  what  acting  means,"  said  Nathan. 
"And  when  you  do  come  on,  Susan  Hacker,  you've  got  to 
quarrel  and  pull  my  beard,  remember;  then  we  make  it  up 
afterwards." 

"We'll  finish  for  to-night  with  the  Giant,"  decreed 
Dennis.  "Now  speak  your  long  speech,  St.  George,  and 
then  Mr.  Baskerville  can  do  the  Giant." 

Ned,  who  declared  that  he  had  as  yet  learned  no  more, 
read  his  next  speech,  and  Vivian  began  behind  the  scenes  — 

"Fee  —  fi  —  fo  —  fum  ! 
I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman. 
Let  him  be  living,  or  let  him  be  dead, 
I'll  grind  his  bones  to  make  my  bread." 

"You  ought  to  throw  a  bit  more  roughness  in  your  voice, 
farmer,"  suggested  Mr.  Gollop.  "If  you  could  bring  it  up 
from  the  innards,  'twould  sound  more  awful,  wouldn't  it, 
reverend  Masterman?" 

291 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

"And  when  you  come  on,  farmer,  you  might  pass  me  by 
where  I  lie  dead,"  said  Jack,  "and  I'll  up  and  give  you  a  nip 
in  the  calf  of  the  leg,  and  you'll  jump  round,  and  the  people 
will  roar  again," 

"No,"  declared  the  vicar.  "No  more  of  you.  Head,  till 
the  end.  Then  you  come  to  life  and  dance  with  the  French 
Eagle  —  that's  Voysey.  But  you  mustn't  act  any  more  till 
then." 

"A  pity,"  answered  Jack.  "I  was  full  of  contrivances; 
however,  if  you  say  so " 

"Be  I  to  dance?"  asked  Mr.  Voysey.  "This  is  the  first 
I've  heard  tell  o'  that.  How  can  I  dance,  and  the  rheuma- 
tism eating  into  my  knees  for  the  last  twenty  year?" 

"I'll  dance,"  said  Head.  "You  can  just  turn  round  and 
round  slowly." 

"Now,  Mr.  Baskerville!" 

Vivian  strode  on  to  the  stage. 

"Make  your  voice  big,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Gollop. 

"Here  come  I,  the  Giant;   bold  Turpin  is  my  name, 
And  all  the  nations  round  do  tremble  at  my  fame, 
Where'er  I  go,  they  tremble  at  my  sight: 
No  lord  or  champion  long  with  me  will  dare  to  fight." 

"People  will  cheer  you  like  thunder,  Vivian,"  said  his 
brother,  "because  they  know  that  the  nations  really  did 
tremble  at  your  fame  when  you  was  champion  wrestler  of 
the  west." 

"But  you  mustn't  stand  like  that,  farmer,"  said  Jack 
Head.  "You'm  too  spraddlesome.  For  the  Lord's  sake, 
man,  try  and  keep  your  feet  in  the  same  parish!" 

Mr.  Baskerville  bellowed  with  laughter  and  slapped  his 
immense  thigh. 

292 


Christmas  Stories 

"Dammy!  that's  funnier  than  anything  in  the  play," 
he  said.  "'Keep  my  feet  in  the  same  parish !'  Was  ever 
a  better  joke  heard?" 

**Now,  St.  George,  kill  the  Giant,"  commanded  Dennis. 
"The  Giant  will  have  a  club,  and  he'll  try  to  smash  you; 
then  run  him  through  the  body." 

"Take  care  you  don't  hit  Ned  in  real  earnest,  however, 
else  you'd  settle  him  and  spoil  the  play,"  said  Mr.  Voysey. 
"'Twould  be  a  terrible  tantarra  for  certain  if  the  Giant 
went  and  whipped  St.  George." 

"  'T wouldn't  be  the  first  time,  however,"  said  Mr. 
Baskerville.     "Would  it,  Ned?" 

Nathan  and  Ned's  sisters  appreciated  this  family  joke. 
Then  Mr.  Gollop  advanced  a  sentimental  objection. 

"I  may  be  wrong,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  can't  help 
thinking  it  might  be  a  bit  ondecent  for  Ned  Baskerville  here 
to  kill  his  father,  even  in  play.  You  see,  though  everybody 
will  know  'tis  Ned  and  his  parent,  and  that  they'm  only 
pretending,  yet  it  might  shock  a  serious-minded  person  here 
and  there  to  see  the  son  kill  the  father.  I  don't  say  I  mind, 
as  'tis  all  make-believe  and  the  frolic  of  a  night;  but  —  well, 
there  'tis." 

"You'm  a  silly  old  grandmother,  and  never  no  King  of 
Egypt  was  such  a  fool  afore,"  said  Jack.  "Pay  no  heed  to 
him,  reverend  Masterman." 

Gollop  snarled  at  Head,  and  they  began  to  wrangle 
fiercely. 

Then  Dennis  closed  the  rehearsal. 

"That'll  do  for  the  present,"  he  announced.     "We've 

made  a  splendid  start,  and  the  thing  to  remember  is  that  we 

meet  here  again  this  day  week,  at  seven  o'clock.     And  mind 

you  know  your  part,  Ned.     Another  of  the  songs  will  be 

293 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

ready  by  then;  and  the  new  harmonium  will  have  come 
that  my  sister  is  going  to  play.  And  do  look  about,  all  of 
you,  to  find  somebody  who  will  take  the  Doctor." 

"We  shall  have  the  nation's  eyes  on  us  —  not  for  the 
first  time,"  declared  Mr.  Gollop  as  he  tied  a  white  wool 
muffler  round  his  throat;  "and  I'm  sure  I  hope  one  and  all 
will  do  the  best  that's  in  'em." 

The  actors  departed;  the  oil  lamps  were  extinguished, 
and  the  vicar  and  his  sister  returned  home.  She  said  little 
by  the  way,  and  her  severe  silence  made  him  rather  nervous. 

"Well,"  he  broke  out  at  length,  "jolly  good,  I  think,  for  a 
first  attempt  —  eh,  Alice?" 

"I'm  glad  you  were  satisfied,  dear.  Everything  depends 
upon  us  —  that  seems  quite  clear,  at  any  rate.  They'll 
all  get  terribly  self-conscious  and  silly,  I'm  afraid,  long 
before  the  time  comes.  However,  we  must  hope  for  the 
best.  But  I  shouldn't  be  in  a  hurry  to  ask  anybody  who 
really  matters." 

Eden  Phillpotts  in  The  Three  Brothers 


294 


X 

NEW  YEAR 


NEW  YEAR 


New  Year 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 

A  New  Year's  Carol 

New  Year's  Resolutions 

Love  and  Joy  come  to  You 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells 

New  Year's  Eve,  1850 

Rejoicings  upon  the  New  Year's  Coming 

of  Age 
New  Year's  Rites  in  the  Highlands 
The  Chinese  New  Year 
New  Year's  Gifts  in  Thessaly 
"  Smashing"  in  the  New  Year 
New  Year  Calls  in  Old  New  York 
Sylvester  Abend  in  Davos 


-  llwr^wx. " 


New  Year 

T^ACH  New  Year  is  a  leaf  of  our  love's  rose; 
-■— '   It  falls,  but  quick  another  rose-leaf  grows. 
So  is  the  flower  from  year  to  year  the  same, 
But  richer,  for  the  dead  leaves  feed  its  flame. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


298 


Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year  -<:^     ^;:>     ^^ 

'V/'ES,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 
-*-    And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold. 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  sorely! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow; 
Caw !  caw !  the  rooks  are  calling. 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 

The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll; 
They  are  chanting  solemn  masses. 

Singing,  "Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  pray!" 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars. 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain. 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers; 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain. 
All  in  vain ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild-flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  a  king ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day. 
Bids  the  old  man  rejoice ! 
299 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

His  joy,  his  last !     O,  the  old  man  gray 
Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  v^oods  he  saith, 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 

"Pray  do  not  mock  me  so! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me!" 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies. 
No  mist  or  stain ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"Vex  not  his  ghost!" 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind ! 

Howl!   howl!   and  from  the  forest 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away ! 
Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 
O  Soul !    could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away ! 
300 


New  Year 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down -cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson ! 
Christe,  eleyson! 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 


The  Death  of  the  Old  Year      ^:^     ^;:i^     ^:n^     ^Ci^ 

TTj^ULL  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 

-^     And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing: 

Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow. 

And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 

For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily. 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still:   he  doth  not  move: 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 

And  the  New  Year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us. 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
301 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you. 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest. 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend. 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes !   over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro: 
The  cricket  chirps:   the  light  burns  low: 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you: 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !   our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes:    tie  up  his  chin: 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 
302 


New  Year 

And  awaiteth  at  the  door. 
There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 
And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 
A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


A  New  Year's  Carol         ^^     ^;:>     ^oy     ^s>     -^^ 

A  H !  dearest  Jesus,  Holy  Child, 
-^^  Make  Thee  a  bed,  soft,  undefil'd, 
Within  my  heart,  that  it  may  be 
A  quiet  chamber  kept  for  Thee. 
My  heart  for  very  joy  doth  leap, 
My  lips  no  more  can  silence  keep, 
I  too  must  sing,  with  joyful  tongue, 
That  sweetest  ancient  cradle  song, 
''  Glory  to  God  in  highest  Heaven, 
Who  unto  man  His  Son  hath  given." 
While  angels  sing,  with  pious  mirth, 
A  glad  New  Year  to  all  the  earth. 

Martin  Luther 

New  Year's  Resolutions    ^cy     ^::y    ^^    ^:y    ^c:^^ 

JANUARY  ist.  —  The  service  on  New  Year's  Eve  is 
the  only  one  in  the  whole  year  that  in  the  least  im- 
presses me  in  our  little  church,  and  then  the  very  bareness 
and  ugliness  of  the  place  and  the  ceremonial  produce  an 
effect  that  a  snug  service  in  a  well-lit  church  never  would. 
Last  night  we  took  Irais  and  Minora,  and  drove  the  three 
lonely  miles  in  a  sleigh.  It  was  pitch-dark,  and  blowing 
303 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

great  guns.     We  sat  wrapped  up  to  our  eyes  in  furs,  and 
as  mute  as  a  funeral  procession. 

''We  are  going  to  the  burial  of  our  last  year's  sins," 
said  Irais,  as  we  started ;  and  there  certainly  was  a  funereal 
sort  of  feeling  in  the  air.  Up  in  our  gallery  pew  we  tried 
to  decipher  our  chorales  by  the  light  of  the  spluttering 
tallow  candles  stuck  in  holes  in  the  woodwork,  the  flames 
wildly  blown  about  by  the  draughts.  The  wind  banged 
against  the  windows  in  great  gusts,  screaming  louder  than 
the  organ,  and  threatening  to  blow  out  the  agitated  lights 
together.  The  parson  in  his  gloomy  pulpit,  surrounded 
by  a  framework  of  dusty  carved  angels,  took  on  an  awful 
appearance  of  menacing  Authority  as  he  raised  his  voice 
to  make  himself  heard  above  the  clatter.  Sitting  there 
in  the  dark,  I  felt  very  small,  and  solitary,  and  defenceless, 
alone  in  a  great,  big,  black  world.  The  church  was  as 
cold  as  a  tomb;  some  of  the  candles  guttered  and  went 
out;  the  parson  in  his  black  robe  spoke  of  death  and 
judgment;  I  thought  I  heard  a  child's  voice  screaming, 
and  could  hardly  believe  it  was  only  the  wind,  and  felt 
uneasy  and  full  of  forebodings;  all  my  faith  and  philoso- 
phy deserted  me,  and  I  had  a  horrid  feeling  that  I  should 
probably  be  well  punished,  though  for  what  I  had  no 
precise  idea.  If  it  had  not  been  so  dark,  and  if  the  wind 
had  not  howled  so  despairingly,  I  should  have  paid  little 
attention  to  the  threats  issuing  from  the  pulpit;  but,  as  it 
was,  I  fell  to  making  good  resolutions.  This  is  always 
a  bad  sign,  —  only  those  who  break  them  make  them ; 
and  if  you  simply  do  as  a  matter  of  course  that  which  is 
right  as  it  comes,  any  preparatory  resolving  to  do  so  be- 
comes completely  superfluous.  I  have  for  some  years 
past  left  off  making  them  on  New  Year's  Eve,  and  only 
304 


New  Year 

the  gale  happening  as  it  did  reduced  me  to  doing  so  last 
night;  for  I  have  long  since  discovered  that,  though  the 
year  and  the  resolutions  may  be  new,  I  myself  am  not,  and 
it  is  worse  than  useless  putting  new  wine  into  old  bottles. 

"But  I  am  not  an  old  bottle,"  said  Irais  indignantly, 
when  I  held  forth  to  her  to  the  above  effect  a  few  hours 
later  in  the  library,  restored  to  all  my  philosophy  by  the 
.warmth  and  light,  "and  I  find  my  resolutions  carry  me 
very  nicely  into  the  spring.  I  revise  them  at  the  end  of 
each  month,  and  strike  out  the  unnecessary  ones.  By  the 
end  of  April  they  have  been  so  severely  revised  that  there 
are  none  left." 

"There,  you  see  I  am  right;  if  you  were  not  an  old 
bottle  your  new  contents  would  gradually  arrange  them- 
selves amiably  as  a  part  of  you,  and  the  practice  of  your 
resolutions  would  lose  its  bitterness  by  becoming  a  habit." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Such  things  never  lose  their 
bitterness,"  she  said,  "and  that  is  why  I  don't  let  them 
cling  to  me  right  into  the  summer.  When  May  comes, 
I  give  myself  up  to  jollity  with  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 
am  too  busy  being  happy  to  bother  about  anything  I  may 
have  resolved  when  the  days  were  cold  and  dark." 

"And  that  is  just  why  I  love  you,"  I  thought.  She 
often  says  what  I  feel. 

From  Elizabeth  and  her  German  Garden 

Love  and  Joy  come  to  You    ^:v      ^^'      ^^     ^^ 

TTERE  we  come  a-wassailing 
-*-  -*■   Among  the  leaves  so  green, 
Here  we  come  a-wandering. 

So  fair  to  be  seen. 
X  305 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Love  and  joy  come  to  you, 
And  to  you  your  wassail  too. 
And  God  bless  you,  and  send  you 
A  happy  New  Year. 

We  are  not  daily  beggars 
That  beg  from  door  to  door, 

But  we  are  neighbours'  children 
Whom  you  have  seen  before. 
Love  and  joy,  b'c. 

Good  Master  and  good  Mistress, 

As  you  sit  by  the  fire, 
Pray  think  of  us  poor  children 

Who  are  wandering  in  the  mire. 
Love  and  joy,  dfc. 

We  have  a  little  purse 

Made  of  ratching  leather  skin; 
We  want  some  of  your  small  change 

To  line  it  well  within. 
Love  and  joy,  d^c. 

Call  up  the  butler  of  this  house, 

Put  on  his  golden  ring; 
Let  him  bring  us  a  glass  of  beer. 

And  the  better  we  shall  sing. 

Love  and  joy,  d^c. 

Bring  us  out  a  table, 

And  spread  it  with  a  cloth; 
Bring  us  out  a  mouldy  cheese 

And  some  of  your  Christmas  loaf. 
Love  and  joy,  d^c. 
306 


New  Year 

God  bless  the  Master  of  this  house, 

Likewise  the  Mistress  too, 
And  all  the  little  children 
That  round  the  table  go. 
Love  and  joy  come  to  you, 
And  to  you  your  wassail  too. 
And  God  bless  you,  and  send  you 
A  happy  New  Year. 

Old  English 


Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells     <:^     <>y     ^^     ^ 

T3  ING  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
-■-^  The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow; 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 


* 


Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 
307 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


New  Year's  Eve,  1850    ^^     ^r^^     ^i^     -^r^y     ^Oy 

nPHIS  is  the  midnight  of  the  century,  —  hark ! 
■^    Through  aisle  and  arch  of  Godminster  have  gone 
Twelve  throbs  that  tolled  the  zenith  of  the  dark, 
And  mornward  now  the  starry  hands  move  on; 
"Morn ward!"  the  angelic  watchers  say, 
^'  Passed  is  the  sorest  trial; 
No  plot  of  man  can  stay 
The  hand  upon  the  dial; 
Night  is  the  dark  stem  of  the  lily  Day." 

If  we,  who  watched  in  valleys  here  below. 

Toward  streaks,  misdeemed  of  morn,  our  faces  turned 

When  Vulcan  glares  set  all  the  east  aglow,  — 

We  are  not  poorer  that  we  wept  and  yearned; 

Though  earth  swing  wide  from  God's  intent, 

And  though  no  man  nor  nation 

Will  move  with  full  consent 

In  heavenly  gravitation. 

Yet  by  one  Sun  is  every  orbit  bent. 

James  Russell  Lowell 


308 


New  Year 
Rejoicings  upon  the  New  Year's  Coming  of  Age 

THE  Old  Year  being  dead,  and  the  New  Year  coming 
of  age,  which  he  does,  by  Calendar  Law,  as  soon  as 
the  breath  is  out  of  the  old  gentleman's  body,  nothing 
would  serve  the  young  spark  but  he  must  give  a  dinner 
upon  the  occasion,  to  which  all  the  Days  in  the  year  were 
invited.  The  Festivals,  whom  he  deputed  as  his  stewards, 
were  mightily  taken  with  the  notion.  They  had  been  en- 
gaged time  out  of  mind,  they  said,  in  providing  mirth  and 
good  cheer  for  mortals  below ;  and  it  was  time  they  should 
have  a  taste  of  their  own  bounty.  It  was  stiffly  debated 
among  them  whether  the  Fasts  should  be  admitted.  Some 
said  the  appearance  of  such  lean,  starved  guests,  with  their 
mortified  faces,  would  pervert  the  ends  of  the  meeting. 
But  the  objection  was  overruled  by  Christmas  Day,  who 
had  a  design  upon  Ash  Wednesday  (as  you  shall  hear), 
and  a  mighty  desire  to  see  how  the  old  Domine  would  be- 
have himself  in  his  cups.  Only  the  Vigils  were  requested 
to  come  with  their  lanterns,  to  light  the  gentlefolks  home 
at  night. 

All  the  Days  came  to  their  day.  Covers  were  provided 
for  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  guests  at  the  principal 
table;  with  an  occasional  knife  and  fork  at  the  side-board 
for  the  Twenty-Ninth  of  February. 

I  should  have  told  you,  that  cards  of  invitation  had  been 
issued.  The  carriers  were  the  Hours;  twelve  little,  merry, 
whirligig  foot-pages,  as  you  should  desire  to  see,  that  went 
all  rounJ,  and  found  out  the  persons  invited  well  enough, 
with  the  exception  of  Easter  Day,  Shrove  Tuesday,  and  a 
few  such  Moveables,  who  had  lately  shifted  their  quarters. 

Well,  they  all  met  at  last  —  foul  Days,  fine  Days,  all 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

sorts  of  Days,  and  a  rare  din  they  made  of  it.  There  was 
nothing  but,  Hail !  fellow  Day,  well  met  —  brother  Day  — 
sister  Day,  —  only  Lady  Day  kept  a  Httle  on  the  aloof,  and 
seemed  somewhat  scornful.  Yet  some  said  Twelfth  Day 
cut  her  out  and  out,  for  she  came  in  a  tiffany  suit,  white 
and  gold,  like  a  queen  on  a  frost-cake,  all  royal,  glittering, 
and  Epiphanous.  The  rest  came,  some  in  green,  some  in 
white  —  but  old  Lent  and  his  family  were  not  yet  out  of 
mourning.  Rainy  Days  came  in  dripping;  and  sunshiny 
Days  helped  them  to  change  their  stockings.  Wedding 
Day  was  there  in  his  marriage  finery,  a  little  worse  for 
wear.  Pay  Day  came  late,  as  he  always  does;  and  Dooms- 
day sent  word  —  he  might  be  expected. 

April  Fool  (as  my  young  lord's  jester)  took  upon  him- 
self to  marshal  the  guests,  and  wild  work  he  made  with  it. 
It  would  have  posed  old  Erra  Pater  to  have  found  out  any 
given  Day  in  the  year  to  erect  a  scheme  upon  —  good 
Days,  bad  Days,  were  so  shuffled  together,  to  the  con- 
founding of  all  sober  horoscopy. 

He  had  stuck  the  Twenty-First  of  June  next  to  the 
Twenty-Second  of  December,  and  the  former  looked  like 
a  Maypole  siding  a  marrow-bone.  Ash  Wednesday  got 
wedged  in  (as  was  concerted)  betwixt  Christmas  and  Lord 
Mayor's  Days.  Lord !  how  he  laid  about  him !  Nothing 
but  barons  of  beef  and  turkeys  would  go  down  with  him  — 
to  the  great  greasing  and  detriment  of  his  new  sackcloth 
bib  and  tucker.  And  still  Christmas  Day  was  at  his  elbow, 
plying  him  with  the  wassail-bowl,  till  he  roared,  and  hic- 
cupp'd,  and  protested  there  was  no  faith  in  dried  ling,  but 
commended  it  to  the  devil  for  a  sour,  windy,  acrimonious, 
censorious,  hy-po-crit-crit-critical  mess,  and  no  dish  for  a 
gentleman.  Then  he  dipt  his  fist  into  the  middle  of  the 
310 


New  Year 

great  custard  that  stood  before  his  left-hand  neighbour, 
and  daubed  his  hungry  beard  all  over  with  it,  till  you 
would  have  taken  him  for  the  Last  Day  in  December,  it 
so  hung  in  icicles. 

At  another  part  of  the  table,  Shrove  Tuesday  was  help- 
ing the  Second  of  September  to  some  cock  broth,  —  which 
courtesy  the  latter  returned  with  the  delicate  thigh  of  a  hen 
pheasant  —  so  that  there  was  no  love  lost  for  that  matter. 
The  Last  of  Lent  was  spunging  upon  Shrove-tide's  pan- 
cakes; which  April  Fool  perceiving,  told  him  that  he  did 
well,  for  pancakes  were  proper  to  a  good  fry-day. 

In  another  part,  a  hubbub  arose  about  the  Thirtieth  of 
January,  who,  it  seems,  being  a  sour,  puritanic  character, 
that  thought  nobody's  meat  good  or  sanctified  enough  for 
him,  had  smuggled  into  the  room  a  calf's  head,  which  he 
had  had  cooked  at  home  for  that  purpose,  thinking  to 
feast  thereon  incontinently;  but  as  it  lay  in  the  dish,  March 
Manyweathers,  who  is  a  very  fine  lady,  and  subject  to  the 
meagrims,  screamed  out  there  was  a  ''  human  head  in  the 
platter,"  and  raved  about  Herodias'  daughter  to  that  de- 
gree, that  the  obnoxious  viand  was  obliged  to  be  removed ; 
nor  did  she  recover  her  stomach  till  she  had  gulped  down 
a  Restorative,  confected  of  Oak  Apple,  which  the  merry 
Twenty -Ninth  of  May  always  carries  about  with  him  for 
that  purpose. 

The  King's  health  being  called  for  after  this,  a  notable 
dispute  arose  between  the  Twelfth  of  August  (a  zealous 
old  Whig  gentlewoman)  and  the  Twenty-Third  of  April 
(a  new-fangled  lady  of  the  Tory  stamp)  as  to  which  of 
them  should  have  the  honour  to  propose  it.  August  grew 
hot  upon  the  matter,  affirming  time  out  of  mind  the  pre- 
scriptive right  to  have  lain  with  her,  till  her  rival  had  basely 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

supplanted  her;  whom  she  represented  as  little  better  than 
a  kept  mistress,  who  went  about  in  fine  clothes,  while  she 
(the  legitimate  Birthday)  had  scarcely  a  rag,  etc. 

April  Fool,  being  made  mediator,  confirmed  the  right, 
in  the  strongest  form  of  words,  to  the  appellant,  but  de- 
cided for  peace'  sake,  that  the  exercise  of  it  should  remain 
with  the  present  possessor.  At  the  time,  he  slily  rounded 
the  first  lady  in  the  ear,  that  an  action  might  lie  against  the 
Crown  for  bi-geny. 

It  beginning  to  grow  a  little  duskish.  Candlemas  lustily 
bawled  out  for  lights,  which  was  opposed  by  all  the  Days, 
who  protested  against  burning  daylight.  Then  fair  water 
was  handed  round  in  silver  ewers,  and  the  same  lady  was 
observed  to  take  an  unusual  time  in  Washing  herself. 

May  Day,  with  that  sweetness  which  is  peculiar  to  her, 
in  a  neat  speech  proposing  the  health  of  the  founder, 
crowned  her  goblet  (and  by  her  example  the  rest  of  the 
company)  with  garlands.  This  being  done,  the  lordly 
New  Year,  from  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  in  a  cordial 
but  somewhat  lofty  tone,  returned  thanks.  He  felt  proud 
on  an  occasion  of  meeting  so  many  of  his  worthy  father's 
late  tenants,  promised  to  improve  their  farms,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  abate  (if  anything  was  found  unreasonable) 
in  their  rents. 

At  the  mention  of  this,  the  four  Quarter  Days  invol- 
untarily looked  at  each  other,  and  smiled;  April  Fool 
whistled  to  an  old  tune  of  "New  Brooms";  and  a  surly 
old  rebel  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table  (who  was  discovered 
to  be  no  other  than  the  Fifth  of  November)  muttered  out, 
distinctly  enough  to  be  heard  by  the  whole  company,  words 
to  this  effect  —  that  "when  the  old  one  is  gone,  he  is  a 
fool  that  looks  for  a  better."  Which  rudeness  of  his,  the 
312 


New  Year 

guests  resenting,  unanimously  voted  his  expulsion;  and 
the  malcontent  was  thrust  out  neck  and  heels  into  the 
cellar,  as  the  properest  place  for  such  a  houtefeu  and  fire- 
brand as  he  had  shown  himself  to  be. 

Order  being  restored  —  the  young  lord  (who,  to  say 
truth,  had  been  a  little  ruffled,  and  put  beside  his  oratory) 
in  as  few,  and  yet  as  obliging  words  as  possible,  assured 
them  of  entire  welcome ;  and,  with  a  graceful  turn,  singling 
out  poor  Twenty-Ninth  of  February,  that  had  sate  all  this 
while  mumchance  at  the  side-board,  begged  to  couple  his 
health  with  that  of  the  good  company  before  him  —  which 
he  drank  accordingly;  observing,  that  he  had  not  seen  his 
honest  face  any  time  these  four  years,  with  a  number  of 
endearing  expressions  besides.  At  the  same  time  removing 
the  solitary  Day  from  the  forlorn  seat  which  had  been 
assigned  him,  he  stationed  him  at  his  own  board,  some- 
where between  the  Greek  Calends  and  Latter  Lammas. 

Ash  Wednesday,  being  now  called  upon  for  a  song,  with 
his  eyes  fast  stuck  in  his  head,  and  as  well  as  the  Canary  he 
had  swallowed  would  give  him  leave,  struck  up  a  Carol, 
which  Christmas  Day  had  taught  him  for  the  nounce ;  and 
was  followed  by  the  latter,  who  gave  "Miserere"  in  fine 
style,  hitting  off  the  mumping  notes  and  lengthened  drawl 
of  Old  Mortification  with  infinite  humour.  April  Fool 
swore  they  had  exchanged  conditions;  but  Good  Friday 
was  observed  to  look  extremely  grave;  and  Sunday  held 
her  fan  before  her  face  that  she  might  not  be  seen  to  smile. 

Shrove-tide,  Lord  Mayor's  Day,  and  April  Fool  next 
joined  in  a  glee  — 

Which  is  the  properest  day  to  drink? 

in  which  all  the  Days  chiming  in,  made  a  merry  burden. 
313 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

They  next  fell  to  quibbles  and  conundrums.  The  ques- 
tion being  proposed,  who  had  the  greatest  number  of  fol- 
lowers —  the  Quarter  Days  said,  there  could  be  no  ques- 
tion as  to  that;  for  they  had  all  the  creditors  in  the  world 
dogging  their  heels.  But  April  Fool  gave  it  in  favour  of 
the  Forty  Days  before  Easter;  because  the  debtors  in  all 
cases  outnumbered  the  creditors,  and  they  kept  Lent  all 
the  year. 

All  this  while  Valentine's  Day  kept  courting  pretty  May, 
who  sate  next  him,  slipping  amorous  billets-doux  under 
the  table,  till  the  Dog  Days  (who  are  naturally  of  a  warm 
constitution)  began  to  be  jealous,  and  to  bark  and  rage 
exceedingly.  April  Fool,  who  likes  a  bit  of  sport  above 
measure,  and  had  some  pretensions  to  the  lady  besides, 
as  being  but  a  cousin  once  removed,  —  clapped  and  hal- 
loo'd  them  on;  and  as  fast  as  their  indignation  cooled,  those 
mad  wags,  the  Ember  Days,  were  at  it  with  their  bellows, 
to  blow  it  into  a  flame;  and  all  was  in  a  ferment,  till  old 
Madam  Septuagesima  (who  boasts  herself  the  Mother  of 
the  Days)  wisely  diverted  the  conversation  with  a  tedious 
tale  of  the  lovers  which  she  could  reckon  when  she  was 
young,  and  of  one  Master  Rogation  Day  in  particular,  who 
was  for  ever  putting  the  question  to  her;  but  she  kept  him 
at  a  distance,  as  the  chronicle  would  tell  —  by  which  I 
apprehend  she  meant  the  Almanack.  Then  she  rambled 
on  to  the  Days  that  were  gone,  the  good  old  Days,  and  so 
to  the  Days  before  the  Flood  —  which  plainly  showed 
her  old  head  to  be  little  better  than  crazed  and  doited. 

Day  being  ended,  the  Days  called  for  their  cloaks  and 

greatcoats,   and   took  their   leaves.     Lord   Mayor's  Day 

went  off  in  a  Mist,  as  usual;   Shortest  Day  in  a  deep  black 

Fog,  that  wrapt  the  little  gentleman  all  round  like  a  hedge- 

314 


New  Year 

hog.  Two  Vigils  —  so  watchmen  are  called  in  heaven  — 
saw  Christmas  Day  safe  home  —  they  had  been  used  to  the 
business  before.  Another  Vigil  —  a  stout,  sturdy  patrole, 
called  the  Eve  of  St.  Christopher  —  seeing  Ash  Wednesday 
in  a  condition  little  better  than  he  should  be  —  e'en  whipt 
him  over  his  shoulders,  pick-a-back  fashion,  and  Old 
Mortification  went  floating  home  singing  — 

On  the  bat's  back  do  I  fly, 

and  a  number  of  old  snatches  besides,  between  drunk  and 
sober,  but  very  few  Aves  or  Penitentiaries  (you  may  believe 
me)  were  among  them.  Longest  Days  set  off  westward  in 
beautiful  crimson  and  gold  —  the  rest,  some  in  one  fashion, 
some  in  another;  but  Valentine  and  pretty  May  took  their 
departure  together  in  one  of  the  prettiest  silvery  twilights 
a  Lover's  Day  could  wish  to  set  in. 

Charles  Lamb 


New  Year's  Rites  in  the  Highlands    ^c^    ^>    -^:> 

"\TEW  YEAR'S  DAY  was  not  in  pre-Reformation  times 
•^  ^  associated  with  any  special  rites.  Hence  Scottish 
Reformers,  while  subjecting  to  discipline  those  who  ob- 
served Christmas,  were  willing  that  New  Year's  Day 
should  be  appropriated  to  social  pleasures.  Towards  the 
closing  hour  of  the  31st  December  each  family  prepared  a 
hot  pint  of  wassail  bowl  of  which  all  the  members  might  drink 
to  each  other's  prosperity  as  the  new  year  began.  Hot 
pint  usually  consisted  of  a  mixture  of  spiced  and  sweetened 
ale  with  an  infusion  of  whiskey.  Along  with  the  drinking 
of  the  hot  pint  was  associated  the  practice  oi  first  foot,  or  a 
neighborly  greeting.  After  the  year  had  commenced,  each 
315 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

one  hastened  to  his  neighbor's  house  bearing  a  small 
gift;  it  was  deemed  "unlucky"  to  enter  "empty  handed." 

With  New  Year's  Day  were  in  some  portions  of  the 
Highlands  associated  peculiar  rites.  At  Strathdown  the 
junior  anointed  in  bed  the  elder  members  of  the  household 
with  water,  which  the  evening  before  had  been  silently 
drawn  from  "  the  dead  and  living  food."  Thereafter  they 
kindled  in  each  room,  after  closing  the  chimneys,  bunches 
of  juniper.  These  rites,  the  latter  attended  with  much 
discomfort,  were  held  to  ward  off  pestilence  and  sorcery. 

The  direction  of  the  wind  on  New  Year's  Eve  was  sup- 
posed to  rule  the  weather  during  the  approaching  year. 
Hence  the  rhyme: 

If  New  Year's  Eve  night-wind  blow  south, 

It  betokeneth  warmth  and  growth; 

If  west,  much  milk,  —  and  fish  in  the  sea: 

If  north,  much  cold  and  storms  there  will  be; 

If  east,  the  trees  will  bear  much  fruit; 

If  north-east,  flee  it,  man  and  brute. 

Charles  Rogers  in  Social  Life  in  Scotland 

The  Chinese  New  Year    -^     ^:>     ^^^     -=;^     ^^ 

HTHE  anniversary  of  the  New  Year  in  China  follows  the 
-*-    variations  of  a  lunar  year,  falling  in  early  February  or 
toward  the  end  of  January;    the  rejoicings  are  continued 
with  great  spirit  for  a  week  or  more. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  old  year,  accounts  are  settled, 
debts  cancelled,  and  books  carefully  balanced  in  every 
mercantile  establishment  from  the  largest  merchants  or 
bankers,  down  to  the  itinerant  venders  of  cooked  food  and 
vegetable-mongers.  In  every  house  the  swanpaun,  or 
316 


New  Year 

calculating  machine,  is  in  use.  This  nation  does  not  write 
down  figures,  but  reckons  with  surprising  rapidity  and 
accuracy  by  the  aid  of  a  small  frame  of  wood  crossed  with 
wires  like  columns  and  small  balls  strung  on  them  for 
counters. 

It  is  considered  disgraceful,  and  almost  equivalent  to  an 
act  of  bankruptcy,  if  all  accounts  are  not  settled  the  last  day 
of  the  old  year;  consequently  it  frequently  happens  that 
articles  of  ornament  or  curiosity  can  be  purchased  at  low 
rates  in  the  last  week  of  the  year  from  the  desire  of  mer- 
chants to  sacrifice  their  stock  rather  than  go  without  ready 
money.  In  all  courts  the  official  seals  are  locked  in  strong- 
boxes, till  the  hoHday  is  at  an  end. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  old  year  is  observed  the  ancient 
custom  of  surrounding  the  furnace.  A  feast  is  spread  in 
great  form  before  males  in  one  room,  females  in  another; 
underneath  the  table  exactly  in  the  centre  is  placed  a 
brazier  filled  with  lighted  wood  or  charcoal ;  fireworks  are 
discharged,  gilt  paper  burned,  and  the  feast  eaten,  the 
younger  sons  serving  the  head  of  the  house.  After  the 
repast  there  is  more  burning  of  gilt  paper,  and  the  ashes  are 
divided,  while  still  smouldering,  into  twelve  heaps,  which  are 
anxiously  watched.  The  twelve  heaps  are  each  allotted  to  a 
month,  and  it  is  believed  that  from  the  length  of  time  it 
takes  each  heap  to  die  completely  out,  can  be  predicted  the 
changes  of  rain  or  drought  which  will  be  of  benefit  to  the 
crops  or  the  reverse. 

The  first  celebration  of  the  New  Year  is  the  offering  to 
heaven  and  earth.  A  table  in  the  principal  entrance  is 
spread  with  a  bucket  of  rice,  five  or  ten  bowls  of  different 
vegetables  (no  meats)  ten  cups  of  tea,  ten  cups  of  wine,  two 
large  red  candles,  and  three  sticks  of  common  incense  or  one 
317 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

large  stick  of  a  more  fragrant  kind.  In  the  wooden  bucket 
holding  the  rice  are  stuck  flowers  or  bits  of  fragrant  cedar, 
and  ten  pairs  of  chopsticks.  On  the  sticks  are  laid  mock 
money  only  used  at  this  season ;  to  one  of  the  sticks  is  sus- 
pended by  a  red  string  an  almanac  of  the  coming  year; 
and  near  the  centre  of  the  table  is  always  displayed  a  bowl 
of  oranges.  Then  after  a  display  of  fireworks  each  member 
of  the  family  approaches  and  performs  homage  by  a  cere- 
mony of  triple  bowings.  This  is  succeeded  by  ceremonies  of 
veneration  to  ancestors  and  tokens  of  respect  and  reverence 
to  living  ancestors  or  relatives  —  but  to  the  living  neither 
incense,  nor  candle  nor  mock  money  is  offered,  —  not  even 
food  except  the  omnipresent  loose  skinned  orange  whose 
colloquial  name  is  the  same  as  the  term  for  "fortunate." 

On  New  Year's  Day,  the  houses  are  decorated  with  in- 
scriptions which  are  hung  at  either  side  of  the  door,  on  the 
pillars  or  frames,  and  in  the  interior  of  the  houses ;  some 
are  suspended  from  long  poles  attached  to  the  outside  of  the 
house.  The  color  of  the  paper  indicates  whether  during  the 
preceding  year  the  inmates  of  the  house  have  lost  a  relative 
and  if  so  the  degree  of  the  relation  of  the  dead  person  to 
those  within.  Those  who  are  not  in  mourning  use  a  brilliant 
crimson  paper ;  in  many  cases  the  word  happiness  is  repeated 
innumerable  times;  on  some  are  more  ambitious  mottoes: 
—  "May  I  be  so  learned  as  to  bear  in  my  memory  the  sub- 
stance of  three  millions  of  volumes,"  "May  I  know  the 
affairs  of  the  whole  universe  for  six  thousand  years,"  "I 
will  cheat  no  man."  The  monasteries  declare  "Our  lives 
are  pure"  and  the  nunneries  "We  are  grandmothers  in 
heart." 

In  some  parts  of  China  there  prevails  a  curious  custom 
among  mendicants  of  electing  a  chief  who  goes  to  each 

318 


New  Year 

shopkeeper  and  asks  a  donation.  If  that  received  be 
liberal,  a  piece  of  red  paper  affixed  to  the  merchant's  door- 
way exempts  him  from  applications  from  the  begging  fra- 
ternity for  one  year.  During  this  term  of  immunity  there 
will  be  no  annoyance  from  the  clatter  on  his  doorpost  of  the 
beggars'  bamboo. 

For  the  time  being,  business  is  suspended,  tribunals  are 
closed,  houses  are  decorated,  gifts  interchanged,  large  sums 
expended  on  fireworks,  and  the  celebration  reaches  full 
swing  on  the  night  of  the  Feast  of  Lanterns,  when  every 
dwelling  in  the  Kingdom  from  the  mud-walled  bamboo  hut, 
to  the  Emperor's  palace  with  marble  halls,  are  all  illuminated 
with  lanterns  of  every  size  and  shape.  At  the  end  of  the 
feast  a  great  pyrotechnic  display  takes  place,  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  better  class  of  residences,  in  the  streets  before 
the  abodes  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  each  one 
trying  to  outdo  the  year  before  in  the  magnificence  of  the 
display,  the  strangeness  of  the  devices,  and  the  brilHancy 
of  the  fireworks.  The  air  is  illumined  with  millions  of 
sparks,  and  the  eye  rests  upon  thousands  of  grotesque 
monsters  outhned  in  the  many  colored  flames. 

H.  C.  SiER  in  China  and  the  Chinese 


New  Year's  Gifts  in  Thessaly    ^:::y    ^^    ^^^    •^::> 

"\T0  good  Thessalian  would  think  of  being  absent  from 
-'■  ^  the  liturgy  on  New  Year's  morning,  and  no  good 
peasant  would  think  of  leaving  behind  him  the  pome- 
granate which  has  been  exposed  to  the  stars  all  night,  and 
which  they  take  to  the  church  for  the  priest  to  bless.  On 
his  return  home  the  master  of  each  house  dashes  this  pome- 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

granate  on  the  floor  as  he  crosses  his  threshold,  and  says  as 
he  does  so,  "  May  as  many  good-lucks  come  to  my  household 
as  there  are  pips  in  this  pomegranate;"  and  apostrophizing, 
so  to  speak,  the  demons  of  the  house,  he  adds,  "Away  with 
you,  fleas,  and  bugs,  and  evil  words ;  and  within  this  house 
may  health,  happiness,  and  the  good  things  of  this  world 
reign  supreme!" 

In  like  manner,  no  good  housewife  would  neglect  to 
distribute  sweets  to  her  children  on  New  Year's  morning, 
considering  that  by  eating  them  they  will  secure  for  them- 
selves a  sweet  career  for  the  rest  of  the  year. 

And  many  other  little  superstitions  of  a  kindred  nature  are 
considered  essential  to  the  well-being  of  the  family.  In 
one  house  we  entered  on  New  Year's  Day  we  were  presented 
with  pieces  of  a  curious  and  exceedingly  nasty  leavened  loaf, 
and  were  told  that  this  is  the  New  Year's  cake  which  every 
family  makes;  into  it  is  dropped  a  coin,  and  he  who  gets 
the  coin  in  his  slice  will  be  the  luckiest  during  the  coming 
year.  Every  member  of  the  family  has  a  slice  given  to  him 
—  even  the  tiny  baby,  who  has  not  the  remotest  chance  of 
consuming  all  his;  and  then  besides  the  family  slices,  two 
large  ones  are  always  cut  off  the  cake  and  set  on  one  side; 
one  of  these  is  said  to  be  **for  the  house,"  which  nobody 
eats,  but  when  it  is  quite  dry  it  is  put  on  a  shelf  near  the 
sacred  pictures,  which  occupy  a  corner  in  every  home, 
however  humble,  and  is  dedicated  to  the  saints  —  the  house- 
hold gods  of  the  old  days.  The  other  slice  is  for  the  poor, 
who  go  around  with  baskets  on  their  arms  on  New  Year's 
Day  and  collect  from  each  household  the  portion  which 
they  know  has  been  put  aside  for  them. 

Every  Thessalian,  however  poor,  gives  a  New  Year's 
gift  "for  good  luck,"  they  say;  and  these  gifts  curiously 
320 


New  Year 

enough  are  called  eTrtvo/xcSes  —  a  word  which  we  find 
Athenasnus  using  as  a  translation  of  the  Roman  term  strena 
for  the  same  gift,  which  still  exists  in  the  French  etrennes 
and  Italian  strenne.  Even  as  in  ancient  Rome  gifts  were 
given  on  this  day  bona  ominis  causa  so  did  we  find  ourselves 
constantly  presented  with  something  on  New  Year's  Day  — 
nuts,  apples,  dried  figs,  and  things  of  a  like  nature,  which 
caused  our  pockets  to  become  inconveniently  crowded. 
I  fancy  it  was  much  the  same  in  Roman  days  and  probably 
earlier  as  it  is  now  in  out  of  the  way  corners  of  Greece. 
We  know  how  on  New  Year's  Day  clients  sent  presents  to 
their  patrons  —  slaves  to  the  lords,  friends  to  friends,  and 
the  people  to  the  Emperor  —  and  that  Caligula,  who  was 
never  a  rich  man,  took  advantage  of  this  custom  and  made 
known  that  on  New  Year's  Day  he  wanted  a  dower  for 
his  daughter,  which  resulted  in  such  piles  of  gold  being 
brought  that  he  walked  barefoot  upon  them  at  his  palace 
door. 

The  custom  of  giving  New  Year's  gifts  in  Rome  grew  as 
great  a  nuisance  as  wedding  presents  bid  fair  to  become  with 
us,  and  sumptuary  laws  had  to  be  passed  to  restrict  the 
lavish  expenditure  in  them,  and  the  earlier  Christian 
divines  took  occasion  to  abuse  them  hotly,  St.  Augustine 
calling  New  Year's  gifts  "diabolical"  and  Chrysostom 
preaching  that  the  first  of  the  year  was  a  "Satanic  extrava- 
gance." 

Wishing  to  Christianize  a  pagan  custom  as  they  always 
tried  to  do,  these  earlier  divines  invented  Christmas  gifts 
as  a  substitute.  Wherefore  we  unfortunate  dwellers  in  the 
West  have  the  survival  of  both  Christmas  and  New  Year's 
gifts;  in  Greece  Christmas  gifts  are  unknown;  but  there 
exists  not  in  Greece  a  man,  however  poor,  who  does  not 

Y  321 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

make  an  effort  to  give  his  friends  a  gift  on  the  day  of  the 
K^^^^^^'  J.  Theodore  Bent 

"Smashing"  in  the  New  Year    ^:>    -^^    ^:^    -^^ 

npHE  Old  Year  went  out  with  much  such  a  racket  as  we 
^  make  nowadays,  but  of  quite  a  different  kind.  We  did 
not  blow  the  New  Year  in,  we  "  smashed  "  it  in.  When  it  was 
dark  on  New  Year's  Eve,  we  stole  out  with  all  the  cracked 
and  damaged  crockery  of  the  year  that  had  been  hoarded 
for  the  purpose  and,  hieing  ourselves  to  some  favorite 
neighbor's  door,  broke  our  pots  against  it.  Then  we  ran, 
but  not  very  far  or  very  fast,  for  it  was  part  of  the  game  that 
if  one  was  caught  at  it,  he  was  to  be  taken  in  and  treated  to 
hot  doughnuts.  The  smashing  was  a  mark  of  favor,  and 
the  citizen  who  had  most  pots  broken  against  his  door 
was  the  most  popular  man  in  town.  When  I  was  in  the 
Latin  School  a  cranky  burgomaster,  whose  door  had  been 
freshly  painted,  gave  orders  to  the  watchmen  to  stop  it,  and 
gave  them  an  unhappy  night,  for  they  were  hard  put  to  it 
to  find  a  way  it  was  safe  to  look,  with  the  streets  full  of 
the  best  citizens  in  town,  and  their  wives  and  daughters, 
sneaking  singly  by  with  bulging  coats  on  their  way  to  salute 
a  friend.  That  was  when  our  mothers,  those  who  were 
not  out  smashing  in  the  New  Year,  came  out  strong  after  the 
fashion  of  mothers.  They  baked  more  doughnuts  than 
ever  that  night,  and  beckoned  the  watchman  in  to  the  treat; 
and  there  he  sat,  blissfully  deaf  while  the  street  rang  with 
the  thunderous  salvos  of  our  raids;  until  it  was  discovered 
that  the  burgomaster  himself  was  on  post,  when  there  was 
a  sudden  rush  from  kitchen  doors  and  a  great  scurrying 
through  the  streets  that  grew  strangely  silent. 
322 


New  Year 

The  town  had  its  revenge,  however.  The  burgomaster, 
returning  home  in  the  midnight  hour,  stumbled  in  his  gate 
over  a  discarded  Christmas-tree  hung  full  of  old  boots  and 
many  black  and  sooty  pots  that  went  down  round  him  with 
a  great  smash  as  he  upset  it,  so  that  his  family  came  running 
out  in  alarm  to  find  him  sprawling  in  the  midst  of  the  biggest 
celebration  of  all.  His  dignity  suffered  a  shock  which  he 
never  quite  got  over.  But  it  killed  the  New  Year's  fun, 
too.  For  he  was  really  a  good  fellow,  and  then  he  was 
the  burgomaster  and  chief  of  police  to  boot.  I  suspect  the 
fact  was  that  the  pot-smashing  had  run  its  course.  Per- 
haps the  supply  of  pots  was  giving  out;  we  began  to  use 
tinware  more  about  that  time.  That  was  the  end  of  it, 
anyhow.  . 

Jacob  Riis  in  The  Old  Town 

New  Year  Calls  in  Old  New  York    ^^    ^r^^    ^:::y 

"Cj^ROM  old  Dutch  times  to  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
"^  century  New  Year's  Day  in  New  York  was  devoted 
to  an  universal  interchange  of  visits.  Old  friendships  were 
renewed,  family  differences  settled,  a  hearty  welcome  ex- 
tended even  to  strangers  of  presentable  appearance. 

The  following  is  an  entry  in  Tyrone  Powers  the  actor's 
diary  for  January  i,  1834:  "On  this  day  from  an  early 
hour  every  door  in  New  York  is  open  and  all  the  good 
things  possessed  by  the  inmates  paraded  in  lavish  profusion. 
Every  sort  of  vehicle  is  put  in  requisition.  At  an  early 
hour  a  gentleman  of  whom  I  had  a  slight  knowledge  entered 
my  room,  accompanied  by  an  elderly  person  I  had  never 
before  seen,  and  who,  on  being  named,  excused  himself 
for  adopting  such  a  frank  mode  of  making  my  acquaintance. 
323 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

which  he  was  pleased  to  add  he  much  desired,  and  at  once 
requested  me  to  fall  in  with  the  custom  of  the  day,  whose 
privilege  he  had  thus  availed  himself  of,  and  accompany 
him  on  a  visit  to  his  family. 

"  I  was  the  last  man  on  earth  likely  to  decline  an  offer  made 
in  such  a  spirit ;  so  entering  his  carriage,  which  was  wait- 
ing, we  drove  to  his  house  on  Broadway,  where,  after  being 
presented  to  a  very  amiable  lady,  his  wife,  and  a  pretty 
gentle-looking  girl,  his  daughter,  I  partook  of  a  sump- 
tuous luncheon,  drank  a  glass  of  champagne,  and  on  the 
arrival  of  other  visitors,  made  my  bow,  well  pleased  with 
my  visit. 

"  My  host  now  begged  me  to  make  a  few  calls  with  him, 
explaining,  as  we  drove  along,  the  strict  observances  paid  to 
this  day  throughout  the  State,  and  tracing  the  excellent  cus- 
tom to  the  early  Dutch  colonists.  I  paid  several  calls  in 
company  with  my  new  friend,  and  at  each  place  met  a  hearty 
welcome,  when  my  companion  suggested  that  I  might  have 
some  compliments  to  make  on  my  own  account,  and  so 
leaving  me,  begged  me  to  consider  his  carriage  perfectly 
at  my  disposal.  I  left  a  card  or  two  and  made  a  couple  of 
hurried  visits,  then  returned  to  my  hotel  to  think  over  the 
many  beneficial  effects  likely  to  grow  out  of  such  a  chari- 
table custom  which  makes  even  the  stranger  sensible  of  the 
benevolent  influence  of  this  kindly  day,  and  to  wish  for  its 
continued  observance." 

At  the  period  of  which  Power  speaks  there  were  great 
feasts  spread  in  many  houses,  and  the  traditions  of  tre- 
mendous Dutch  eating  and  drinking  were  faithfully  ob- 
served. Special  houses  were  noted  for  particular  forms 
of  entertainment.  At  one  it  was  eggnog,  at  another  rum 
punch;  at  this  one,  pickled  oysters,  at  that,  boned  turkey, 
324 


New  Year 

or  marvellous  chocolate,  or  perfect  Mocha  coffee ;  or  for  the 
select  cognoscenti  a  drop  of  old  Madeira  as  delicate  in  flavor 
as  the  texture  of  the  glass  from  which  it  was  sipped.  At 
all  houses  there  were  the  New  Year's  cakes,  in  the  form  of 
an  Egyptian  cartouche,  and  in  later  and  more  degener- 
ate days  relays  of  champagne-bottles  appeared,  —  the 
coming  in  of  the  lower  empire. 

Then  followed  the  gradual  breaking  down  of  all  the  lines 
of  conventionality  into  a  wild  and  unseemly  riot  of  visits. 
New  Year's  Day  took  on  the  character  of  a  rabid  and  un- 
tamed race  against  time.  A  procession,  each  of  whose 
component  parts  was  made  up  of  two  or  three  young  men 
in  an  open  barouche,  with  a  pair  of  steaming  horses  and  a 
driver  more  or  less  under  the  influences  of  the  hilarity  of  the 
day,  would  rattle  from  one  house  to  another  all  day  long. 
The  visitors  would  jump  out  of  the  carriage,  rush  into  the 
house,  and  reappear  in  a  miraculously  short  space  of  time. 
The  ceremony  of  calling  was  a  burlesque.  There  was  a 
noisy,  hilarious  greeting,  a  glass  of  wine  was  swallowed 
hurriedly,  everybody  shook  hands  all  around,  and  the 
callers  dashed  out,  rushed  into  the  carriage,  and  were 
driven  hurriedly  to  the  next  house. 

A  reaction  naturally  set  in  which  ended  in  the  almost 
complete  disuse  of  the  custom  of  New  Year's  Calls. 

W.  S.  Walsh  in  Curiosities  of  Popular  Customs 

Sylvester  Abend  in  Davos      ^;:>     ^:>      ^;^      ^^ 

TT  is  ten  o'clock  upon  Sylvester  Abend,  or  New  Year's 
-^  Eve.  Herr  Buol  sits  with  his  wife  at  the  head  of  his 
long  table.  His  family  and  serving-folk  are  around  him. 
There  is  his  mother,  with  little  Ursula,  his  child,  upon  her 
325 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

knee.  The  old  lady  is  the  mother  of  four  comely  daughters 
and  nine  stalwart  sons,  the  eldest  of  whom  is  now  a  grizzled 
man.  Besides  our  host,  four  of  the  brothers  are  here  to- 
night; the  handsome  melancholy  Georg,  who  is  so  gentle 
in  his  speech;  Simeon,  with  his  diplomatic  face;  Florian, 
the  student  of  medicine;  and  my  friend,  colossal-breasted 
Christian.  Palmy  came  a  little  later,  worried  with  many 
cares,  but  happy  to  his  heart's  core.  No  optimist  was  ever 
more  convinced  of  his  philosophy  than  Palmy.  After  them, 
below  the  salt,  were  ranged  the  knechts  and  porters,  the 
marmiton  from  the  kitchen,  and  innumerable  maids.  The 
board  was  tessellated  with  plates  of  birnen-brod  and  eier- 
brod,  kuchli  and  cheese  and  butter;  and  Georg  stirred 
grampampuli  in  a  mighty  metal  bowl.  For  the  unini- 
tiated, it  may  be  needful  to  explain  these  Davos  delicacies. 
Birnen-brod  is  what  the  Scotch  would  call  a  "bun,"  or 
massive  cake,  composed  of  sliced  pears,  almonds,  spices,  and 
a  little  flour.  Eier-brod  is  a  saffron -coloured  sweet  bread, 
made  with  eggs;  and  kuchli  is  a  kind  of  pastry,  crisp  and 
flimsy,  fashioned  into  various  devices  of  cross,  star,  and 
scroll.  Grampampuli  is  simply  brandy  burnt  with  sugar, 
the  most  unsophisticated  punch  I  ever  drank  from  tumblers. 
The  frugal  people  of  Davos,  who  live  on  bread  and  cheese 
and  dried  meat  all  the  year,  indulge  themselves  but  once 
with  these  unwonted  dainties  in  the  winter. 

The  occasion  was  cheerful,  and  yet  a  little  solemn.  The 
scene  was  feudal.  For  these  Buols  are  the  scions  of  a 
warrior  race :  — 

"  A  race  illustrious  for  heroic  deeds; 
Humbled,  but  degraded." 

During  the  six  centuries  through  which  they  have  lived 
326 


New  Year 

nobles  in  Davos,  they  have  sent  forth  scores  of  fighting  men 
to  foreign  lands,  ambassadors  to  France  and  Venice  and  the 
Milanese,  governors  to  Chiavenna  and  Bregaglia  and  the 
much-contested  Valtelline.  Members  of  their  house  are 
Counts  of  Buol-Schauenstein  in  Austria,  Freiherrs  of  Muh- 
lingen  and  Berenberg  in  the  now  German  Empire.  They 
keep  the  patent  of  nobility  conferred  on  them  by  Henri  IV. 
Their  ancient  coat  —  parted  per  pale  azure  and  argent, 
with  a  dame  of  the  fourteenth  century  bearing  in  her  hand 
a  rose,  all  counterchanged  —  is  carved  in  wood  and  monu- 
mental marble  on  the  churches  and  old  houses  hereabouts. 
And  from  immemorial  antiquity  the  Buol  of  Davos  has  sat 
thus  on  Sylvester  Abend  with  family  and  folk  around  him, 
summoned  from  alp  and  snowy  field  to  drink  grampampuH 
and  break  the  birnen-brod. 

These  rites  performed,  the  men  and  maids  began  to  sing 
—  brown  arms  lounging  on  the  table,  and  red  hands  folded 
in  white  aprons  —  serious  at  first  in  hymn-Hke  cadences, 
then  breaking  into  wilder  measures  with  a  jodel  at  the  close. 
There  is  a  measured  solemnity  in  the  performance,  which 
strikes  the  stranger  as  somewhat  comic.  But  the  singing 
was  good ;  the  voices  strong  and  clear  in  tone,  no  hesitation 
and  no  shirking  of  the  melody.  It  was  clear  that  the  singers 
enjoyed  the  music  for  its  own  sake,  with  half-shut  eyes,  as 
they  take  dancing,  solidly,  with  deep-drawn  breath,  sus- 
tained and  indefatigable.  But  eleven  struck ;  and  the  two 
Christians,  my  old  friend  and  Palmy,  said  we  should  be 
late  for  church.  They  had  promised  to  take  me  with  them 
to  see  bell-ringing  in  the  tower.  All  the  young  men  of  the 
village  meet,  and  draw  lots  in  the  Stube  of  the  Rathhaus. 
One  party  tolls  the  old  year  out,  the  other  rings  the  new 
year  in.  He  who  comes  last  is  sconced  three  litres  of 
327 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

Veltliner  for  the  company.  This  jovial  fine  was  ours  to  pay 
to-night. 

When  we  came  into  the  air  we  found  a  bitter  frost ;  the 
whole  sky  clouded  over;  a  north  wind  whirling  snow  from 
alp  and  forest  through  the  murky  gloom.  The  benches  and 
broad  walnut  tables  of  the  Rathhaus  were  crowded  with 
men  in  shaggy  homespun  of  brown  and  grey  frieze.  Its  low 
wooden  roof  and  walls  enclosed  an  atmosphere  of  smoke, 
denser  than  the  eternal  snow-drift.  But  our  welcome  was 
hearty,  and  we  found  a  score  of  friends.  Titanic  Fopp, 
whose  limbs  are  Michelangelesque  in  length;  spectacled 
Morosani ;  the  little  tailor  Kramer,  with  a  French  horn  on 
his  knees;  the  puckered  forehead  of  the  Baumeister;  the 
Troll-shaped  postman ;  peasants  and  woodmen,  known  on 
far  excursions  upon  pass  and  upland  valley.  Not  one  but 
carried  on  his  face  the  memory  of  winter  strife  with  ava- 
lanche and  snow-drift,  of  horses  struggling  through  Fluela 
whirlwinds,  and  wine-casks  tugged  across  Bernina,  and 
haystacks  guided  down  precipitous  gullies  at  thundering 
speed  'twixt  pine  and  pine,  and  larches  felled  in  distant 
glens  beside  the  frozen  watercourses.  Here  we  were,  all 
met  together  for  one  hour  from  our  several  homes  and 
occupations,  to  welcome  in  the  year  with  clinked  glasses 
and  cries  of  Prosit  Neujahr ! 

The  tolling  bells  above  us  stopped.  Our  turn  had  come. 
Out  into  the  snowy  air  we  tumbled,  beneath  the  row  of 
wolves'  heads  that  adorn  the  pent-house  roof.  A  few  steps 
brought  us  to  the  still  God's  acre,  where  the  snow  lay  deep 
and  cold  upon  high-mounded  graves  of  many  generations. 
We  crossed  it  silently,  bent  our  heads  to  the  low  Gothic 
arch,  and  stood  within  the  tower.  It  was  thick  darkness 
there.  But  far  above,  the  bells  began  again  to  clash  and 
328 


New  Year 

jangle  confusedly,  with  volleys  of  demoniac  joy.  Successive 
flights  of  ladders,  each  ending  in  a  giddy  platform  hung 
across  the  gloom,  climb  to  the  height  of  some  hundred  and 
fifty  feet ;  and  all  their  rungs  were  crusted  with  frozen  snow, 
deposited  by  trampling  boots.  For  up  and  down  these 
stairs,  ascending  and  descending,  moved  other  than  angels 
—  the  frieze-jacketed  Burschen,  Grisens  bears,  rejoicing  in 
their  exercise,  exhilarated  with  the  tingling  noise  of  beaten 
metal.  We  reached  the  first  room  safely,  guided  by  firm- 
footed  Christian,  whose  one  candle  just  defined  the  rough 
walls  and  the  slippery  steps.  There  we  found  a  band  of 
boys  pulling  ropes  that  set  the  bells  in  motion.  But  our 
destination  was  not  reached.  One  more  aerial  ladder,  per- 
pendicular in  darkness,  brought  us  swiftly  to  the  home  of 
sound.  It  is  a  small  square  chamber,  where  the  bells  are 
hung,  filled  with  the  interlacement  of  enormous  beams,  and 
pierced  to  north  and  south  by  open  windows,  from  whose 
parapets  I  saw  the  village  and  the  valley  spread  beneath. 
The  fierce  wind  hurried  through  it,  charged  with  snow,  and 
its  narrow  space  thronged  with  men.  Men  on  the  platform, 
men  on  the  window-sills,  men  grappling  the  bells  with  iron 
arms,  men  brushing  by  to  reach  the  stairs,  crossing,  re-cross- 
ing, shouldering  their  mates,  drinking  red  wine  from  gigan- 
tic beakers,  exploding  crackers,  firing  squibs,  shouting  and 
yelling  in  corybantic  chorus.  They  yelled  and  shouted, 
one  could  see  it  by  their  open  mouths  and  glittering  eyes; 
but  not  a  sound  from  human  lungs  could  reach  our  ears. 
The  overwhelming  incessant  thunder  of  the  bells  drowned 
all.  It  thrilled  the  tympanum,  ran  through  the  marrow  of 
the  spine,  vibrated  in  the  inmost  entrails.  Yet  the  brain 
was  only  steadied  and  excited  by  this  sea  of  brazen  noise. 
After  a  few  moments  I  knew  the  place  and  felt  at  home  in  it. 
329 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

Then  I  enjoyed  a  spectacle  which  sculptors  might  have 
envied.  For  they  ring  the  bells  in  Davos  after  this  fashon : 
—  The  lads  below  set  them  going  with  ropes.  The  men 
above  climb  in  pairs  on  ladders  to  the  beams  from  which  they 
are  suspended.  Two  mighty  pine-trees,  roughly  squared 
and  built  into  the  walls,  extend  from  side  to  side  across  the 
belfry.  Another,  from  which  the  bells  hang,  connects  these 
massive  trunks  at  right  angles.  Just  where  the  central  beam 
is  wedged  into  the  two  parallel  supports,  the  ladders  reach 
from  each  side  of  the  belfry,  so  that,  bending  from  the  higher 
rung  of  the  ladder,  and  leaning  over,  stayed  upon  the  lateral 
beam,  each  pair  of  men  can  keep  one  bell  in  movement  with 
their  hands.  Each  comrade  plants  one  leg  upon  the  ladder, 
and  sets  the  other  knee  firmly  athwart  the  horizontal  pine. 
Then  round  each  other's  waist  they  twine  left  arm  and  right. 
The  two  have  thus  become  one  man.  Right  arm  and  left 
are  free  to  grasp  the  bell's  horns,  sprouting  at  its  crest 
beneath  the  beam.  With  a  grave  rhythmic  motion,  bending 
sideward  in  a  close  embrace,  swaying  and  returning  to  their 
centre  from  the  well-knit  loins,  they  drive  the  force  of 
each  strong  muscle  into  the  vexed  bell.  The  impact  is 
earnest  at  first,  but  soon  it  becomes  frantic.  The  men  take 
something  from  each  other  of  exalted  enthusiasm.  This 
efflux  of  their  combined  energies  inspires  them  and  exasper- 
ates the  mighty  resonance  of  metal  which  they  rule.  They 
are  lost  in  a  trance  of  what  approximates  to  dervish  pas- 
sion —  so  thrilling  is  the  surge  of  sound,  so  potent  are  the 
rhythms  they  obey.  Men  come  and  tug  them  by  the  heels. 
One  grasps  the  starting  thews  upon  their  calves.  Another 
is  impatient  for  their  place.  But  they  strain  still,  locked 
together,  and  forgetful  of  the  world.  At  length,  they  have 
enough:  then  slowly,  clingingly,  unclasp,  turn  round  with 
330 


New  Year 

gazing  eyes,  and  are  resumed,  sedately,  into  the  diurnal 
round  of  common  life.  Another  pair  is  in  their  room 
upon  the  beam. 

The  Englishman  who  saw  those  things  stood  looking  up, 
enveloped  in  his  ulster  with  the  grey  cowl  thrust  upon  his 
forehead,  like  a  monk.  One  candle  cast  a  grotesque  shadow 
of  him  on  the  plastered  wall.  And  when  his  chance  came, 
though  he  was  but  a  weakling,  he  too  climbed  and  for  some 
moments  hugged  the  beam,  and  felt  the  madness  of  the 
swinging  bell.  Descending,  he  wondered  long  and  strangely 
whether  he  ascribed  too  much  of  feeling  to  the  men  he 
watched.  But  no,  that  was  impossible.  There  are  emo- 
tions deeply  seated  in  the  joy  of  exercise,  when  the  body  is 
brought  into  play,  and  masses  move  in  concert,  of  which  the 
subject  is  but  half  conscious.  Music  and  dance,  and  the 
delirium  of  the  battle  or  the  chase,  act  thus  upon  spontane- 
ous natures.  The  mystery  of  rhythm  and  associated  energy 
and  blood  tingling  in  sympathy  is  here.  It  lies  at  the  root 
of  man's  most  tyrannous  instinctive  impulses. 

It  was  past  one  when  we  reached  home,  and  now  a  medi- 
tative man  might  well  have  gone  to  bed.  But  no  one 
thinks  of  sleeping  on  Sylvester  Abend.  So  there  followed 
bowls  of  punch  in  one  friend's  room,  where  English, 
French,  and  German  blent  together  in  convivial  Babel; 
and  flasks  of  old  Montagner  in  another.  Palmy,  at  this 
period,  wore  an  archdeacon's  hat,  and  smoked  a  church- 
warden's pipe ;  and  neither  were  his  own,  nor  did  he  derive 
anything  ecclesiastical  or  Anglican  from  the  association. 
Late  in  the  morning  we  must  sally  forth,  they  said,  and 
roam  the  town.  For  it  is  the  custom  here  on  New  Year's 
night  to  greet  acquaintances,  and  ask  for  hospitality,  and 
no  one  may  deny  these  self-invited  guests.     We  turned  out 

331 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

again  into  the  grey  snow-swept  gloom,  a  curious  Comus  — 
not  at  all  like  Greeks,  for  we  had  neither  torches  in  our 
hands  nor  rose-wreaths  to  suspend  upon  a  lady's  door- 
posts. .  .  . 

However,  upon  this  occasion,  though  we  had  winter  wind 
enough,  and  cold  enough,  there  was  not  much  love  in  the 
business.  My  arm  was  firmly  clenched  in  Christian  Buol's, 
and  Christian  Palmy  came  behind,  trolling  out  songs  in 
Italian  dialect,  with  still  recurring  canaille  choruses,  of 
which  the  facile  rhymes  seemed  mostly  made  on  a  pro- 
longed amu-u-u-r.  It  is  noticeable  that  Italian  ditties  are 
especially  designed  for  fellows  shouting  in  the  streets  at 
night.  .  .  .  The  tall  church-tower  and  spire  loomed  up 
above  us  in  grey  twilight.  The  tireless  wind  still  swept 
thin  snow  from  fell  and  forest.  But  the  frenzied  bells  had 
sunk  into  their  twelve-month's  slumber,  which  shall  be 
broken  only  by  decorous  tollings  at  less  festive  times.  I 
wondered  whether  they  were  tingling  still  with  the  heart- 
throbs and  with  the  pressure  of  those  many  arms?  Was 
their  old  age  warmed,  as  mine  was,  with  that  gust  of  life  — 
the  young  men  who  had  clung  to  them  like  bees  to  lily-bells, 
and  shaken  all  their  locked -up  tone  and  shrillness  into  the 
wild  winter  air?  Alas !  how  many  generations  of  the  young 
have  handled  them ;  and  they  are  still  there,  frozen  in  their 
belfry;  and  the  young  grow  middle-aged,  and  old,  and  die 
at  last ;  and  the  bells  they  grappled  in  their  lust  of  manhood 
toll  them  to  their  graves,  on  which  the  tireless  wind  will, 
winter  after  winter,  sprinkle  snow  from  alps  and  forests 
which  they  knew. 

John  Addington  Symonds 


332 


XI 
TWELFTH    NIGHT 


DOWN  with  the  rosemary  and  bays, 
Down  with  tlie  mistletoe ; 
Instead  of  holly,  now  up-raise 
The  greener  box,  for  show. 

The  holly  hitherto  did  sway; 

Let  box  now  domineer. 
Until  the  dancing  Easter-day, 

On  Easter's  Eve  appear. 

Robert  Herrick 


336 


Now  have  Good  Day      ^^     ^:::y     <^     ^::y     ^ 

ATOW  have  good  day,  now  have  good  dayl 
I  am  Christmas,  and  now  I  go  my  way! 

Here  have  I  dwelt  with  more  and  less, 
From  Hallow-tide  till  Candlemas ! 
And  now  must  I  from  you  hence  pass, 
Now  have  good  day! 

I  take  my  leave  of  King  and  Knight, 
And  Earl,  Baron,  and  lady  bright ! 
To  wilderness  I  must  me  dight ! 
Now  have  good  day  ! 

And  at  the  good  lord  of  this  hall, 
I  take  my  leave,  and  of  guestes  all ! 
Methinks  I  hear  Lent  doth  call, 
Now  have  good  day! 

And  at  every  worthy  officer, 
Marshall,  panter,  and  butler, 
I  take  my  leave  as  for  this  year. 
Now  have  good  day! 

Another  year  I  trust  I  shall 
Make  merry  in  this  hall ! 
If  rest  and  peace  in  England  may  fall ! 
Now  have  good  day! 

But  often  times  I  have  heard  say, 
That  he  is  loth  to  part  away, 
That  often  biddeth  "  have  good  day ! " 
Now  have  good  day! 
z  337 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

Now  fare  ye  well  all  in-fere ! 
Now  fare  ye  well  for  all  this  year, 
Yet  for  my  sake  make  ye  good  cheer ! 
Now  have  good  day! 

From  a  Balliol  MS.  of  c.  1540 


A  Twelfth  Night  Superstition     <:>    ^c>    ^::^    <:> 

n^WICE  six  nights  then  from  Christmasse,  they  do  count 
-^      with  diligence, 
Wherein  eche  maister  in  his  house  doth  burne  by  francken- 

sence : 
And  on  the  table  settes  a  loafe,  when  night  approcheth  nere, 
Before  the  coles  and  franckensence  to  be  perfumed  there: 
First  bowing  down  his  heade  he  standes,  and  nose  and  eares 

and  eyes 
He  smokes,  and  with  hos  mouth  receyves  the  fume  that 

doth  arise 
Whom  followeth  streight  his  wife,  and  doth  the  same  full 

solemly, 
And  of  their  children  every  one  and  all  their  family; 
Which  doth  preserve  they  say  their  teeth  and  nose  and  eye 

and  eare 
From  every  kind  of  maladie,  and  sicknesse  all  the  yeare. 
When  every  one  receyued  hath  this  odour  great  and  small 
Then  one  takes  up  the  pan  with  coales,  and  franckensence 

and  all 
An  other  takes  the  loafe,  whom  all  the  rest  do  follow  here. 
And  round  about  the  house  they  go  with  torch  or  taper  clere, 
That  neither  bread  nor  meat  do  want,  nor  witch  with  dread- 
ful charme 

338 


Twelfth  Night 

Have  power  to  hurt  their  children  or  to  do  their  cattell 

harme 
There  are  that  three  nightes  only  do  perfoure  this  foolish 

geare 
To  this  intent,  and  thinke  themselves  in  safetie  all  the  yeare. 

Barnaby  Googe's  versification  of  The  Popish  Kingdome 

Twelfth-Day  Table  Diversion    ^>    ^;>    -^::>    ^^^y 

JOHN  Nott,  describing  himself  as  "late  cook  to  the 
dukes  of  Somerset,  Ormond,  and  Batton,"  writes  in 
1726:  "Ancient  artists  in  cookery  inform  us  that  in  former 
days,  when  good  housekeeping  was  in  fashion  amongst  the 
English  nobility,  they  used  either  to  begin  or  conclude 
their  entertainments,  and  divert  their  guests  with  such 
pretty  devices  as  these  following,  viz :  — 

A  castle  made  of  pasteboard,  with  gates,  drawbridges, 
battlements  and  portcullises,  all  done  over  with  paste,  was 
set  upon  a  table  in  a  large  charger,  with  salt  laid  round 
about  it,  as  if  it  were  the  ground  in  which  were  stuck  egg- 
shells full  of  rose  or  other  sweet  waters,  the  meat  of  the 
egg  having  been  taken  out  by  a  great  pin.  Upon  the  bat- 
tlement of  the  castle  were  planted  Kexes  covered  over  with 
paste,  in  the  form  of  cannons,  and  made  to  look  like  brass 
by  covering  them  with  dutch  leaf-gold.  These  cannons 
being  charged  with  gunpowder,  and  trains  laid  so  that 
you  might  fire  as  many  as  you  pleased,  at  one  touch ;  this 
castle  was  set  at  one  end  of  the  table. 

Then  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  they  would  set  a  stag 
made  of  paste,  but  hollow,  and  filled  with  claret  wine,  and 
a  broad  arrow  stuck  in  his  side ;  this  was  also  set  in  a  large 
339 


The   Book  of  Christmas 

charger,  with  a  ground  made  of  salt  with  egg-shells  of 
perfumed  waters  stuck  in  it  as  before. 

Then  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  they  would  have  a 
ship  made  of  pasteboard,  and  covered  ail  over  with  paste, 
with  masts,  sails,  flags,  and  streamers;  and  guns  made  of 
Kexes,  covered  with  paste  and  charged  with  gunpowder, 
with  a  train,  as  in  the  castle.  This  being  placed  in  a  large 
charger  was  set  upright  in  as  it  were  a  sea  of  salt,  in  which 
were  also  stuck  egg-shells  full  of  perfumed  waters.  Then 
betwixt  the  stag  and  castle,  and  the  stag  and  ship,  were 
placed  two  pies  made  of  coarse  paste,  filled  with  bran,  and 
washed  over  with  saffron  and  the  yolks  of  eggs;  when 
these  were  baked  the  bran  was  taken  out,  a  hole  was  cut 
in  the  bottom  of  each,  and  live  birds  put  into  one  and  frogs 
into  the  other.  Then  the  holes  were  closed  up  with  paste, 
and  the  lids  neatly  cut  up,  so  that  they  might  be  easily 
taken  off  by  the  funnels,  and  adorned  with  gilded  laurels. 

These  being  thus  prepared,  and  placed  in  order  on  the 
table,  one  of  the  ladies  was  persuaded  to  draw  the  arrow 
out  of  the  body  of  the  stag,  which  being  done  the  claret 
wine  issued  forth  like  blood  from  a  wound  and  caused  ad- 
miration in  the  spectators;  which  being  over,  after  a  little 
pause,  all  the  guns  on  one  side  of  the  castle  were  by  a 
train  discharged  against  the  ship;  and  afterwards  the  guns 
of  one  side  of  the  ship  were  discharged  against  the  castle ; 
then,  having  turned  the  chargers,  the  other  sides  were  fired 
off  as  in  a  battle.  This  causing  a  great  smell  of  powder, 
the  ladies  or  gentlemen  took  up  the  eggshells  of  perfumed 
water  and  threw  them  at  one  another.  This  pleasant 
disorder  being  pretty  well  laughed  over,  and  the  two  great 
pies  still  remaining  untouched,  some  one  or  other  would 
have  the  curiosity  to  see  what  was  in  them  and  on  lifting 
340 


Twelfth  Night 

up  the  lid  of  one  pie,  out  would  jump  the  frogs,  which 
would  make  the  ladies  skip  and  scamper;  and  on  lifting 
up  the  lid  of  the  other  out  would  fly  the  birds,  which  would 
naturally  fly  at  the  light  and  so  put  out  the  candles.  And 
so  with  the  leaping  of  the  frogs  below,  and  the  flying  of  the 
birds  above,  would  cause  a  Surprising  and  diverting  hurley 
burley  among  the  guests,  in  the  dark.  After  which  the 
candles  being  lighted,  the  banquet  would  be  brought  in, 
the  music  sound,  and  the  particulars  of  each  person's 
surprise  and  adventures  furnish  matter  for  diverting 
discourse. 

The  Cook  and  Confectioners  Dictionary,  1726 


The  Blessing  of  the  Waters     ^^     -^     ^^^     <::iy 

T  WAS  anxious  to  be  present  at  the  early  liturgy  of  the 
-*■  morning  of  Epiphany  to  witness  the  ceremony  of  the 
blessing  of  the  waters  in  the  pretty  quaint  village  on  the 
island  of  Skiathos  in  a  far-away  corner  of  Greece.  It  was 
a  great  effort,  for  the  night  had  been  cold  and  stormy; 
however,  by  some  process  which  will  never  be  quite  clear 
to  me  I  managed  to  find  myself  at  the  door  of  the  one  church 
with  its  many  storied  bell-tower,  soon  after  four  o'clock. 
Very  quaint  indeed  it  looked  as  I  went  out  of  the  cold  dark- 
ness into  the  brilliantly  lighted  church,  and  saw  the  pious 
islanders  kneeling  all  around  on  the  cold  floor  as  the  liturgy 
was  being  chanted  prior  to  the  blessing  of  the  waters. 
Near  the  entrance  stood  the  font  filled  to  the  brim;  and 
close  to  it  was  placed  an  eikon  or  sacred  picture,  repre- 
senting the  baptism  of  our  Lord ;  around  the  font  were 
stuck  many  candles  fastened  by  their  own  grease;    whilst 

341 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

pots  and  jugs  of  every  size  and  description,  full  of  water, 
stood  about  on  the  floor  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  font. 

After  the  priest  had  chanted  the  somewhat  tedious 
litany  from  the  steps  of  the  high  altar,  he  set  off  dressed 
sumptuously  in  his  gold  brocaded  vestments,  round  the 
church  with  a  large  cross  in  one  hand,  and  a  sprig  of  basil 
in  the  other,  accompanied  by  two  acolytes,  who  waved 
their  censers  and  cast  about  a  pleasant  odor  of  frankin- 
cense. Every  one  was  prostrate  as  the  priest  read  the 
appointed  Scripture,  signed  the  water  in  the  font  and  in  the 
adjacent  jugs  with  the  cross  and  threw  into  the  font  his 
sprig  of  basil.  No  sooner  was  this  solemn  impressive 
ceremony  over  than  there  was  a  general  rush  from  all  sides 
with  mugs  and  bottles  to  secure  some  of  this  consecrated 
water.  Everybody  laughed  and  hustled  his  neighbor; 
even  the  priest,  with  the  cross  in  his  hand,  stood  and 
watched  them  with  a  grin.  The  sudden  change  from  the 
preceding  solemnity  was  ludicrous  in  the  extreme. 

Before  taking  his  departure  for  his  home  each  person 
went  up  to  kiss  the  cross  which  the  priest  held  and  to  be 
sprinkled  with  water  from  the  sprig  of  basil.  Each  person 
had  brought  his  own  sprig  of  basil  which  he  presented  to 
the  priest  to  bless,  and  in  return  for  this  favor  dropped  a 
small  coin  into  the  plate  held  by  one  of  the  acolytes.  Basil 
is  always  held  to  be  a  sacred  plant  in  Greece.  The  legend 
says  that  it  grew  on  Christ's  tomb,  and  they  imagine  that 
this  is  the  reason  why  its  leaves  grow  in  a  cruciform  shape. 
In  nearly  every  humble  Greek  dwelling  you  may  see  a  dried 
sprig  of  basil  hanging  in  the  household  sanctuary.  It  is 
this  sprig  which  has  been  blessed  at  the  Feast  of  Lights. 
It  is  most  effectual  say  they  in  keeping  off  the  influence  of 
the  evil  eye. 

342 


Twelfth  Night 

The  day  broke  fine  and  the  violence  of  the  storm  was 
over.  Yet  our  captain  still  lingered  saying  that  perhaps 
toward  evening  we  might  start,  and  for  this  delay  I  believe 
I  discovered  the  reason.  Towards  midday  on  Epiphany 
it  is  customary  among  these  seafaring  islanders  to  hold  a 
solemn  function,  closely  akin  to  the  one  I  had  witnessed  in 
the  church  that  morning,  namely,  the  blessing  of  the  sea. 

From  their  homes  by  the  shore  the  fishermen  came,  and 
all  the  inhabitants  of  Skiathos  assembled  on  the  quay  to 
join  the  procession  which  descended  from  the  church  by  a 
zigzag  path,  headed  by  two  priests  and  two  acolytes  behind 
them  waving  censers,  and  men  carrying  banners  and  the 
large  cross. 

Very  touching  it  was  to  watch  the  deep  devotion  of  these 
hardy  seafaring  men  as  they  knelt  on  the  shore  whilst  the 
litany  was  being  chanted,  and  whilst  the  chief  priest  blest 
the  waves  with  his  cross  and  invoked  the  blessing  of  the 
most  High  on  the  many  and  varied  crafts  which  were  riding 
at  anchor  in  Skiathos  harbor.  When  the  service  was  over 
there  followed,  as  in  the  morning,  an  unseemly  bustle,  so 
ready  are  these  vivacious  people  to  turn  from  the  solemn  to 
the  gay.  Every  one  chatted  with  his  neighbor  and  pressed 
forward  toward  a  little  jetty  to  see  the  fun.  Presently  the 
priest  advanced  to  the  end  of  this  jetty  with  the  cross  in  his 
hand,  and  after  tying  a  heavy  stone  to  it  he  threw  it  into 
the  sea.  Thereupon  there  was  a  general  rush  into  the 
water;  men  and  boys  with  their  clothes  on  plunged  and 
dived  until  at  length  to  the  applause  of  the  bystanders  one 
young  man  succeeded  in  bringing  the  cross  to  the  surface, 
stone  and  all.  A  subscription  was  then  raised  for  the  suc- 
cessful diver,  the  proceeds  of  which  were  spent  by  him  in 
ordering  many  glasses  of  wine  at  the  nearest  coffee  shop, 
343 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

and  the  wet  men  sat  down  for  a  heavy  drink  —  to  drive 
out  the  chill,  I  suppose. 

In  many  places  you  will  find  the  boats  hauled  upon  the 
beach  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  nothing  will  induce 
their  owners  to  launch  them  again  until  after  the  blessing 
of  the  sea.  I  am  sure  the  captain  of  our  steamer  shared 
the  superstition,  though  he  chose  to  laugh  at  the  island- 
ers' ways;  for  a  few  hours  after  the  sea  had  been  blessed 
we  put  out  into  it,  and  I  imagine  could  have  started  hours 
before  if  the  captain  had  been  so  inclined. 

J.  T.  Bent 

La  Galette  du  Roi     ^^^     ^^    ^::>    ^>    -^r^    ^:iy 

TN  France,  where  it  probably  originated,  the  Twelfth 
-*-  Night  cake,  known  as  La  Galette  du  Roi  ("the  king's 
cake"),  still  survives. 

The  cake  is  generally  made  of  pastry,  and  baked  in  a 
round  sheet  like  a  pie.  The  size  of  the  cake  depends  on 
the  number  of  persons  in  the  company.  In  former  times 
a  broad  bean  was  baked  in  the  cake,  but  now  a  small  china 
doll  is  substituted. 

The  cake  is  the  last  course  in  the  dinner.  One  of  the 
youngest  people  at  the  table  is  asked  to  say  to  whom  each 
piece  shall  be  given.  This  creates  a  little  excitement  and 
all  watch  breathlessly  to  see  who  gets  the  doll.  The  person 
who  gets  it  is  king  or  queen,  and  immediately  chooses  a 
king  or  queen  for  a  partner.  So  soon  as  the  king  and  queen 
are  announced  they  are  under  the  constant  observation  of 
the  rest  of  the  party  and  whatever  they  do  is  immediately 
commented  upon.  In  a  short  time  there  is  a  perfect  up- 
roar: "The  king  drinks,"  "the  queen  speaks,"  "the 
344 


Twelfth  Night 

queen  laughs."  This  is  kept  up  for  a  long  time;  then 
there  are  games,  music  and  dancitig. 

William  Hone  in  the  Everyday  Book 

Drawing  King  and  Queen  on  Twelfth  Night    -^^ 

TTONE,  in  his  Everyday  Bookj  describes  a  drawing  as  it 
■*■  ^  was  conducted  in  1823 :  ''First,  buy  your  cake.  Then, 
before  your  visitors  arrive,  buy  your  characters  (painted 
cards) ,  each  of  which  should  have  a  pleasant  verse  beneath. 
Next,  look  at  your  invitation  list  and  count  the  number  of 
ladies  you  expect;  and  afterwards  the  number  of  gentle- 
men. Then  take  as  many  female  characters  as  you  have 
invited  ladies;  fold  them  up,  exactly  of  the  same  size,  and 
number  each  on  the  back,  taking  care  to  make  the  King 
No.  I  and  the  Queen  No.  2.  Then  prepare  and  number 
the  gentlemen's  characters.  Cause  tea  and  coffee  to  be 
handed  to  your  visitors  as  they  drop  in.  When  all  are 
assembled,  and  tea  over,  put  as  many  ladies'  characters 
in  a  reticule  as  there  are  ladies  present ;  next  put  the  gentle- 
men's characters  in  a  hat.  Then  call  a  gentleman  to  carry 
the  reticule  to  the  ladies,  as  they  sit,  from  which  each  lady 
is  to  draw  one  ticket  and  preserve  it  unopened.  Select  a 
lady  to  bear  the  hat  to  the  gentlemen  for  the  same  purpose. 
There  will  be  one  ticket  left  in  the  reticule  and  another  in 
the  hat,  which  the  lady  and  gentleman  who  carried  each 
is  to  interchange,  as  having  fallen  to  each.  Next  arrange 
your  visitors  according  to  their  numbers  —  the  King  No.  i, 
the  Queen  No.  2,  and  so  on.  The  king  is  then  to  recite 
the  verse  on  his  ticket,  then  the  queen  the  verse  on  hers, 
and  so  the  characters  are  to  proceed  in  numerical  order. 

This  done,  let  the  cake  and  refreshments  go  round,  and 
hey!  for  merriment. 

345 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

St.  Distaff's  Day  and  Plough  Monday     ^^     ^=::^ 

HTHE  day  after  Epiphany  was  called  St.  Distaff's  day 
■^  by  country  people,  because  the  Christmas  holidays 
being  ended  the  time  had  come  for  the  resumption  of  the 
distaff  and  other  industrious  employments  of  good  house- 
wives. 

The  Monday  after  Twelfthday  was  a  similar  occasion 
for  the  resumption  of  agricultural  labors.  Another  writer 
connects  the  day  with  a  custom  which  among  farm  servants 
corresponded  somewhat  to  the  'prentices  Boxing  Day. 
The  usage  was  "to  draw  around  a  plough  and  solicit  money 
with  guisings,  and  dancing  with  swords,  preparatory  to 
beginning  to  plough  after  the  Christmas  holidays." 

Olaus  Magnus  describes  the  "dance  with  swords": 
First,  with  swords  sheathed  and  erect  in  their  hands,  they 
dance  in  a  triple  round;  then  with  their  drawn  swords 
held  erect  as  before ;  afterwards  extending  them  from  hand 
to  hand,  they  lay  hold  of  each  other's  hilts  and  points,  and 
while  they  are  wheeling  more  moderately  around  and 
changing  their  order,  they  throw  themselves  into  the  figure 
of  a  hexagon  which  they  call  a  rose :  but  presently  raising 
and  drawing  back  their  swords,  they  undo  that  figure,  in 
order  to  form  with  them  a  four-square  rose  so  that  they  may 
rebound  over  the  head  of  each  other.  Lastly,  they  dance 
rapidly  backwards,  and  vehemently  rattling  the  sides  of 
their  swords  together,  conclude  their  sport.  Pipes  or 
songs  (sometimes  both)  direct  the  measure  which  at  first 
is  slow,  increasing  to  a  very  quick  movement  at  the  close. 
Olaus  Magnus  adds:  "It  is  scarcely  to  be  understood  how 
gamely  and  decent  it  is." 

William  Hone  in  Year  Book 

346 


XII 
THE    CHRISTMAS   SPIRIT 


THE   CHRISTMAS   SPIRIT 

"As  Littb  Children  in  a  Darkened  Hall 

Christmas  Dreams 

The  Professor's  Christmas  Sermon 

Awaiting  the  King 

Elizabeth's  Christmas  Sermon 

Nichola's  ''  Reason  Why  " 

The  Changing  Spirit  of  Christmastide 

A  Prayer  for  Christmas  Peace 

Under  the  Holly  Bough 

Christmas  Music 

A  Christmas  Sermon 


A  S  little  children  in  a  darkened  hall 
-^^^  At  Christmas-tide  await  the  opening  door, 
Eager  to  tread  the  fairy-haunted  floor 
About  the  tree  with  goodly  gifts  for  all, 
And  into  the  dark  unto  each  other  call  — 
Trying  to  guess  their  happiness  before,  — 
Or  of  their  elders  eagerly  implore 
Hints  of  what  fortune  unto  them  may  fall : 
So  wait  we  in  Time's  dim  and  narrow  room, 
And  with  strange  fancies,  or  another's  thought, 
Try  to  divine,  before  the  curtain  rise, 
The  wondrous  scene.     Yet  soon  shall  fly  the  gloom, 
And  we  shall  see  what  patient  ages  sought, 
The  Father's  long-planned  gift  of  Paradise. 

Charles  Henry  Crandall  in  Wayside  Music 

Published  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


3SO 


Christmas  Dreams     -^^     ^:^     ^:^    ^^    -^^^     ^;^ 

'T^O-MORROW  is  Merry  Christmas;  and  when  its 
night  descends  there  will  be  mirth  and  music,  and 
the  light  sounds  of  the  merry-twinkling  feet  within  these 
now  so  melancholy  walls  —  and  sleep  now  reigning  over 
all  the  house  save  this  one  room,  will  be  banished  far  over 
the  sea  —  and  morning  will  be  reluctant  to  allow  her  light 
to  break  up  the  innocent  orgies. 

Were  every  Christmas  of  which  we  have  been  present  at 
the  celebration,  painted  according  to  nature  —  what  a 
Gallery  of  Pictures !  True  that  a  sameness  would  per- 
vade them  all  —  but  only  that  kind  of  sameness  that  per- 
vades the  nocturnal  heavens.  One  clear  night  always  is, 
to  common  eyes,  just  like  another;  for  what  hath  any 
night  to  show  but  one  moon  and  some  stars  —  a  blue  vault, 
with  here  a  few  braided,  and  there  a  few  castellated,  clouds? 
yet  no  two  nights  ever  bore  more  than  a  family  resemblance 
to  each  other  before  the  studious  and  instructed  eye  of  him 
who  has  long  communed  with  Nature,  and  is  familiar  with 
every  smile  and  frown  on  her  changeful,  but  not  capricious, 
countenance.  Even  so  with  the  Annual  Festivals  of  the 
heart.  Then  our  thoughts  are  the  stars  that  illumine 
those  skies  —  and  on  ourselves  it  depends  whether  they 
shall  be  black  as  Erebus,  or  brighter  than  Aurora. 

"Thoughts !  that  like  spirits  trackless  come  and  go"  —  is 
a  fine  Hne  of  Charles  Lloyd's.  But  no  bird  skims,  no  arrow 
pierces  the  air,  without  producing  some  change  in  the 
Universe,  which  will  last  to  the  day  of  doom.  No  coming 
and  going  is  absolutely  trackless ;  nor  irrecoverable  by 
Nature's  law  is  any  consciousness,  however  ghostlike; 
though  many  a  one,  even  the  most  blissful,  never  does 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

return,  but  seems  to  be  buried  among  the  dead.  But  they 
are  not  dead  —  but  only  sleep;  though  to  us  who  recall 
them  not,  they  are  as  they  had  never  been,  and  we,  wretched 
ingrates,  let  them  lie  for  ever  in  oblivion!  How  passing 
sweet  when  of  our  own  accord  they  arise  to  greet  us  in  our 
solitude !  —  as  a  friend  who,  having  sailed  away  to  a  for- 
eign land  in  our  youth,  has  been  thought  to  have  died 
many  long  years  ago,  may  suddenly  stand  before  us,  with 
face  still  familiar  and  name  reviving  in  a  moment,  and  all 
that  he  once  was  to  us  brought  from  utter  forgetfulness 
close  upon  our  heart. 

My  Father's  House!  How  it  is  ringing  like  a  grove 
in  spring,  with  the  din  of  creatures  happier,  a  thousand 
times  happier,  than  all  the  birds  on  earth.  It  is  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  —  Christmas  Day  itself  —  Christmas  Night 
—  and  Joy  in  every  bosom  intensifies  Love.  Never  be- 
fore were  we  brothers  and  sisters  so  dear  to  one  another  — ■ 
never  before  had  our  hearts  so  yearned  towards  the  authors 
of  our  being  —  our  blissful  being !  There  they  sat  — • 
silent  in  all  that  outcry  —  composed  in  all  that  disarray  — 
still  in  all  that  tumult;  yet,  as  one  or  other  flying  imp 
sweeps  round  the  chair,  a  father's  hand  will  playfully 
strive  to  catch  a  prisoner  —  a  mother's  gentler  touch  on 
some  sylph's  disordered  symar  be  felt  almost  as  a  reproof, 
and  for  a  moment  slacken  the  fairy  flight.  One  old  game 
treads  on  the  heels  of  another  —  twenty  within  the  hour  — 
and  many  a  new  game  never  heard  of  before  nor  since, 
struck  out  by  the  collision  of  kindred  spirits  in  their  glee, 
the  transitory  fancies  of  genius  inventive  through  very 
delight.  Then,  all  at  once,  there  is  a  hush,  profound  as 
ever  falls  on  some  little  plat  within  a  forest  when  the  moon 
drops  behind  the  mountain,  and  small  green-robed  People 
352 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

of  Peace  at  once  cease  their  pastime,  and  vanish.  For 
she  —  the  Silver-Tongued  —  is  about  to  sing  an  old  ballad, 
words  and  air  alike  hundreds  of  years  old  —  and  sing  she 
doth,  while  tears  begin  to  fall,  with  a  voice  too  mournfully 
beautiful  long  to  breathe  below  —  and,  ere  another  Christ- 
mas shall  have  come  with  the  falling  snows,  doomed  to  be 
mute  on  earth  —  but  to  be  hymning  in  Heaven.  .  .  . 

Then  came  a  New  Series  of  Christmases,  celebrated, 
one  year  in  this  family,  another  year  in  that  —  none  present 
but  those  whom  Charles  Lamb  the  Delightful  calleth  the 
"old  familiar  faces";  something  in  all  features,  and  all 
tones  of  voice,  and  all  manners,  betokening  origin  from 
one  root  —  relations  all,  happy,  and  with  no  reason  either 
to  be  ashamed  or  proud  of  their  neither  high  nor  humble 
birth,  their  lot  being  cast  within  that  pleasant  realm, 
"the  Golden  Mean,"  where  the  dwellings  are  connecting 
links  between  the  hut  and  the  hall  —  fair  edifices  resem- 
bling manse  or  mansionhouse,  according  as  the  atmosphere 
expands  or  contracts  their  dimensions  —  in  which  Com- 
petence is  next-door  neighbor  to  Wealth,  and  both  of  them 
within  the  daily  walk  of  Contentment.  Merry  Christ- 
mases they  were  indeed  —  one  Lady  always  presiding, 
with  a  figure  that  once  had  been  the  stateliest  among 
the  stately,  but  then  somewhat  bent,  without  being 
bowed  down,  beneath  an  easy  weight  of  most  venerable 
years.  Sweet  was  her  tremulous  voice  to  all  her  grand- 
children's ears.  Nor  did  these  solemn  eyes,  bedimmed 
into  a  pathetic  beauty,  in  any  degree  restrain  the  glee  that 
sparkled  in  orbs  that  have  as  yet  shed  not  many  tears,  but 
tears  of  joy  or  pity.  Dearly  she  loved  all  those  mortal 
creatures  whom  she  was  soon  about  to  leave ;  but  she  sat  in 
sunshine  even  within  the  shadow  of  death;  and  the  "voice 
2A  353 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

that  called  her  home"  had  so  long  been  whispering  in  her 
ear,  that  its  accents  had  become  dear  to  her,  and  consola- 
tory every  word  that  was  heard  in  the  silence,  as  from 
another  world. 

Whether  we  were  indeed  all  so  witty  as  we  thought 
ourselves  —  uncles,  aunts,  brothers,  sisters,  nephews, 
nieces,  cousins,  and  "the  rest,"  it  might  be  presumptuous 
in  us,  who  were  considered  by  ourselves  and  a  few  others 
not  the  least  amusing  of  the  whole  set,  at  this  distance  of 
time  to  decide  —  especially  in  the  affirmative ;  but  how 
the  roof  did  ring  with  sally,  pun,  retort,  and  repartee! 
Ay,  with  pun  —  a  species  of  impertinence  for  which  we 
have  therefore  a  kindness  even  to  this  day.  Had  incom- 
parable Thomas  Hood  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  been 
born  a  cousin  of  ours,  how  with  that  fine  fancy  of  his  would 
he  have  shone  at  those  Christmas  festivals,  eclipsing  us  all ! 
Our  family,  through  all  its  different  branches,  had  ever  been 
famous  for  bad  voices,  but  good  ears ;  and  we  think  we 
hear  ourselves  —  all  those  uncles  and  aunts,  nephews  and 
nieces,  and  cousins  —  singing  now !  Easy  it  is  to  "warble 
melody"  as  to  breathe  air.  But  we  hope  harmony  is  the 
most  difficult  of  all  things  to  people  in  general,  for  to  us  it 
was  impossible;  and  what  attempts  ours  used  to  be  at 
Seconds!  Yet  the  most  woful  failures  were  rapturously 
encored;  and  ere  the  night  was  done  we  spoke  with  most 
extraordinary  voices  indeed,  every  one  hoarser  than  an- 
other, till  at  last,  walking  home  with  a  fair  cousin,  there 
was  nothing  left  it  but  a  tender  glance  of  the  eye  —  a  tender 
pressure  of  the  hand  —  for  cousins  are  not  altogether 
sisters,  and  although  partaking  of  that  dearest  character, 
possess,  it  may  be,  some  peculiar  and  appropriate  charms 
of  their  own;  as  didst  thou,  Emily  the  "Wildcap!"  — 
354 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

That  soubriquet  all  forgotten  now  —  for  now  thou  art  a 
matron,  nay  a  Grandam,  and  troubled  with  an  elf  fair  and 
frolicsome  as  thou  thyself  wert  of  yore,  when  the  gravest 
and  wisest  withstood  not  the  witchery  of  thy  dancing,  thy 
singings,  and  thy  showering  smiles. 

On  rolled  Suns  and  Seasons  —  the  old  died  —  the  elderly 
became  old  —  and  the  young,  one  after  another,  were 
wafted  joyously  away  on  the  wings  of  hope,  like  birds  almost 
as  soon  as  they  can  fly,  ungratefully  forsaking  their  nests 
and  the  groves  in  whose  safe  shadow  they  first  essayed 
their  pinions;  or  like  pinnaces  that,  after  having  for  a  few 
days  trimmed  their  snow-white  sails  in  the  land-locked 
bay,  close  to  whose  shores  of  silvery  sand  had  grown  the 
trees  that  furnished  timber  both  for  hull  and  mast,  slip 
their  tiny  cables  on  some  summer  day,  and  gathering  every 
breeze  that  blows,  go  dancing  over  the  waves  in  sunshine,^ 
and  melt  far  off  into  the  main.  Or,  haply,  some  were  like 
young  trees,  transplanted  during  no  favorable  season,  and 
never  to  take  root  in  another  soil,  but  soon  leaf  and  branch 
to  wither  beneath  the  tropic  sun,  and  die  almost  unheeded 
by  those  who  knew  not  how  beautiful  they  had  been  be- 
neath the  dews  and  mists  of  their  own  native  climate. 

Vain  images!  and  therefore  chosen  by  fancy  not  too 
plainly  to  touch  the  heart.  For  some  hearts  grew  cold  and 
forbidding  with  selfish  cares  —  some,  warm  as  ever  in  their 
own  generous  glow,  were  touched  by  the  chill  of  Fortune's 
frowns,  ever  worst  to  bear  when  suddenly  succeeding  her 
smiles  —  some,  to  rid  themselves  of  painful  regrets,  took 
refuge  in  forgetfulness,  and  closed  their  eyes  to  the  past  — 
duty  banished  some  abroad,  and  duty  imprisoned  others 
at  home  —  estrangements  there  were,  at  first  unconscious 
and  unintended,  yet  erelong,  though  causeless,  complete  — 
355 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

changes  were  wrought  insensibly,  invisibly,  even  in  the 
innermost  nature  of  those  who  being  friends  knew  no 
guile,  yet  came  thereby  at  last  to  be  friends  no  more  — 
unrequited  love  broke  some  bonds  —  requited  love  re- 
laxed others  —  the  death  of  one  altered  the  conditions  of 
many  —  and  so  —  year  after  year  —  the  Christmas  Meet- 
ing was  interrupted  —  deferred  —  till  finally  it  ceased 
with  one  accord,  unrenewed  and  unrenewable.  For  when 
Some  Things  cease  for  a  time  —  that  time  turns  out  to  be 
forever.  .  .  . 

For  a  good  many  years  we  have  been  tied  to  town  in 
winter  by  fetters  as  fine  as  frost-work,  which  we  could  not 
break  without  destroying  a  whole  world  of  endearment. 
That  seems  an  obscure  image;  but  it  means  what  the 
Germans  would  call  in  English  —  our  winter  environment. 
We  are  imprisoned  in  a  net;  yet  we  can  see  it  when  we 
choose  —  just  as  a  bird  can  see,  when  he  chooses,  the 
wires  of  his  cage,  that  are  invisible  in  his  happiness,  as  he 
keeps  hopping  and  fluttering  about  all  day  long,  or  haply 
dreaming  on  his  perch  with  his  poll  under  his  plumes  — 
as  free  in  confinement  as  if  let  loose  into  the  boundless  sky. 
That  seems  an  obscure  image  too ;  but  we  mean,  in  truth, 
the  prison  unto  which  we  doom  ourselves  no  prison  is; 
and  we  have  improved  on  that  idea,  for  we  have  built  our 
own  —  and  are  prisoner,  turnkey,  and  jailer  all  in  one, 
and  'tis  noiseless  as  the  house  of  sleep.  Or  what  if  we  de- 
clare that  Christopher  North  is  a  king  in  his  palace,  with 
no  subjects  but  his  own  thoughts  —  his  rule  peaceful  over 
those  lights  and  shadows  —  and  undisputed  to  reign  over 
them  his  right  divine. 

The  opening  year  in  a  town,  now  answers  in  all  things 
to  our  heart's  desire.  How  beautiful  the  smoky  air !  The 
356 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

clouds  have  a  homely  look  as  they  hang  over  the  happy 
families  of  houses,  and  seem  as  if  they  loved  their  birth- 
place ;  —  all  unlike  those  heartless  clouds  that  keep  stra- 
vaiging  over  mountain-tops,  and  have  no  domicile  in  the 
sky !  Poets  speak  of  living  rocks,  but  what  is  their  life  to 
that  of  houses  ?  Who  ever  saw  a  rock  with  eyes  —  that  is, 
with  windows?  Stone-blind  all,  and  stone-deaf,  and  with 
hearts  of  stone;  whereas  who  ever  saw  a  house  without 
eyes  —  that  is,  windows?  Our  own  is  an  Argus;  yet  the 
good  old  Conservative  grudges  not  the  assessed  taxes  — 
his  optics  are  as  cheerful  as  the  day  that  lends  them  light, 
and  they  love  to  salute  the  setting  sun,  as  if  a  hundred 
beacons,  level  above  level,  were  kindled  along  a  mountain 
side.  He  might  safely  be  pronounced  a  madman  who 
preferred  an  avenue  of  trees  to  a  street.  Why,  trees  have 
no  chimneys;  and,  were  you  to  kindle  a  fire  in  the  hollow 
of  an  oak,  you  would  soon  be  as  dead  as  a  Druid.  It 
won't  do  to  talk  to  us  of  sap,  and  the  circulation  of  sap. 
A  grove  in  winter,  bole  and  branch  —  leaves  it  has  none  — 
is  as  dry  as  a  volume  of  sermons.  But  a  street,  or  a  square, 
is  full  of  ''vital  sparks  of  heavenly  flame"  as  a  volume  of 
poetry,  and  the  heart's  blood  circulates  through  the  system 
like  rosy  wine. 

But  a  truce  to  comparisons ;  for  we  are  beginning  to  feel 
contrition  for  our  crime  against  the  country,  and,  with 
humbled  head  and  heart,  we  beseech  you  to  pardon  us  — 
ye  rocks  of  Pavey-Ark,  the  pillared  palaces  of  the  storms  — 
ye  clouds,  now  wreathing  a  diadem  for  the  forehead  of 
Helvellyn  —  ye  trees,  that  hang  the  shadows  of  your  un- 
dying beauty  over  the  "one  perfect  chrysolite,"  of  blessed 
Windermere ! 

Our  meaning  is  transparent  now  as  the  hand  of  an 
357 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

apparition  waving  peace  and  good-will  to  all  dwellers  in  the 
land  of  dreams.  In  plainer  but  not  simpler  words  (for 
words  are  like  flowers,  often  rich  in  their  simplicity  — 
witness  the  Lily,  and  Solomon's  Song)  —  Christian  people 
all,  we  wish  you  a  Merry  Christmas  and  Happy  New-Year 
in  town  or  in  country  —  or  in  ships  at  sea. 

Christopher  North 


The  Professor's  Christmas  Sermon  -^i^     ^:>     -n^ 

'T*AKE  all  in  a  word :   the  truth  in  God's  breast 
■^    Lies  trace  for  trace  upon  ours  impressed; 
Though  he  is  so  bright  and  we  so  dim, 
We  are  made  in  his  image  to  witness  him: 
And  were  no  eye  in  us  to  tell. 

Instructed  by  no  inner  sense, 
The  light  of  heaven  from  the  dark  of  hell, 

That  light  would  want  its  evidence,  — 
Though  justice,  good  and  truth  were  still 
Divine,  if,  by  some  demon's  will. 
Hatred  and  wrong  had  been  proclaimed 
Law  through  the  worlds,  and  right  misnamed. 
No  mere  exposition  of  morality 
Made  or  in  part  or  in  totality. 
Should  win  you  to  give  it  worship,  therefore: 
And,  if  no  better  proof  you  will  care  for, 
Whom  do  you  count  the  worst  man  upon  earth? 
Be  sure,  he  knows,  in  his  conscience,  more 
Of  right  what  is,  than  arrives  at  birth 
In  the  best  man's  acts  that  we  bow  before: 
This  last  knows  better  —  true,  but  my  fact  is, 

358 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

'Tis  one  thing  to  know,  and  another  to  practise. 

And  thence  I  conclude  that  the  real  God-function 

Is  to  furnish  a  motive  and  injunction 

For  practising  what  we  know  already. 

And  such  an  injunction  and  such  a  motive 

As  the  God  in  Christ,  do  you  waive,  and  "heady, 

High-minded,"  hang  your  tablet -votive 

Outside  the  fane  on  a  finger-post? 

Morality  to  the  uttermost, 

Supreme  in  Christ  as  we  all  confess, 

Why  need  we  prove  would  avail  no  jot 

To  make  him  God,  if  God  he  were  not? 

What  is  the  point  where  himself  lays  stress? 

Does  the  precept  run  "Believe  in  good,    • 

"  In  justice,  truth  now  understood 

"  For  the  first  time?"  —  or,  "  Believe  in  me^ 

"  Who  lived  and  died,  yet  essentially 

"  Am  Lord  of  Life?"     Whoever  can  take 

The  same  to  his  heart  and  for  mere  love's  sake 

Conceive  of  the  love,  —  that  man  obtains 

A  new  truth;   no  conviction  gains 

Of  an  old  one  only,  made  intense 

By  a  fresh  appeal  to  his  faded  sense. 

Robert  Browning  from  Christmas  Eve 

Awaiting  the  King     ^::>     ^::>     ^;:>    ^^    ^^    -^^ 

"  I  ^HAT  sweetly  prophetic  evening  silence,  before  the 
^  great  feast  of  Good-Will,  does  not  come  over  every- 
thing each  year,  even  in  a  lonely  cottage  on  an  abandoned 
farm  in  Connecticut,  than  which  you  cannot  possibly  im- 
agine anything  more  silent  or  more  remote  from  the  noise 
359 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

of  the  world.  Sometimes  it  rains  in  torrents  just  on  that 
night,  sometimes  it  blows  a  raging  gale  that  twists  the 
leafless  birches  and  elms  and  hickory  trees  like  dry  grass 
and  bends  the  dark  firs  and  spruces  as  if  they  were  feathers, 
and  you  can  hardly  be  heard  unless  you  shout,  for  the 
howling  and  screaming  and  whistling  of  the  blast. 

But  now  and  then,  once  in  four  or  five  years  perhaps, 
the  feathery  snow  lies  a  foot  deep,  fresh-fallen,  on  the  still 
country  side  and  in  the  woods ;  and  the  waxing  moon  sheds 
her  large  light  on  all,  and  Nature  holds  her  breath  to  wait 
for  the  happy  day  and  tries  to  sleep,  but  cannot  from  sheer 
happiness  and  peace.  Indoors,  the  fire  is  glowing  on  the 
wide  hearth,  a  great  bed  of  coals  that  will  last  all  night 
and  be  enough,  because  it  is  not  bitter  weather,  but  only 
cold  and  clear  and  still,  as  it  should  be ;  or  if  there  is  only 
a  poor  stove,  like  Overholt's,  the  iron  door  is  open  and  a 
comfortable,  cheery  red  light  shines  out  from  within  upon 
the  battered  iron  plate  and  the  wooden  floor  beyond;  and 
the  older  people  sit  round  it,  not  saying  much,  and  thinking 
with  their  hearts  rather  than  with  their  heads,  but  small 
boys  and  girls  know  that  interesting  things  have  been  hap- 
pening in  the  kitchen  all  the  afternoon,  and  are  rather  glad 
that  the  supper  was  not  very  good,  because  there  will  be 
more  room  for  good  things  to-morrow ;  and  the  grown-ups 
and  the  children  have  made  up  any  little  differences  of 
opinion  they  may  have  had,  before  supper  time,  because 
Good-Will  must  reign,  and  reign  alone,  like  Alexander; 
so  that  there  is  nothing  at  all  to  regret,  and  nothing  hurts 
anybody  any  more,  and  they  are  all  happy  in  just  waiting 
for  King  Christmas  to  open  the  door  softly  and  make  them 
all  great  people  in  his  kingdom.  But  if  it  is  the  right  sort 
of  house,  he  is  already  looking  in  through  the  window,  to 
360 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

be  sure  that  everyone  is  all  ready  for  him,  and  that  nothing 
has  been  forgotten. 

F.  Marion  Crawford  in  The  Little  City  of  Hope 


Elizabeth's  Christmas  Sermon      ^^^      ^^      ^::> 

T  CANNOT  see  that  there  was  anything  gross  about 
■*"  our  Christmas,  and  we  were  perfectly  merry  without 
any  need  to  pretend,  and  for  at  least  two  days  it  brought 
us  a  little  nearer  together,  and  made  us  kind.  Happiness 
is  so  wholesome;  it  invigorates  and  warms  me  into  piety 
far  more  effectually  than  any  amount  of  trials  and  griefs, 
and  an  unexpected  pleasure  is  the  surest  means  of  bringing 
me  to  my  knees.  In  spite  of  the  protestations  of  some 
peculiarly  constructed  persons  that  they  are  the  better  for 
trials,  I  don't  believe  it.  Such  things  must  sour  us,  just 
as  happiness  must  sweeten  us,  and  make  us  kinder,  and 
more  gentle.  And  will  anybody  afi&rm  that  it  behooves  us 
to  be  more  thankful  for  trials  than  for  blessings?  We 
were  meant  to  be  happy,  and  to  accept  all  the  happiness 
offered  with  thankfulness  —  indeed,  we  are  none  of  us 
ever  thankful  enough,  and  yet  we  each  get  so  much,  so 
very  much,  more  than  we  deserve.  I  know  a  woman  — 
she  stayed  with  me  last  summer  —  who  rejoices  grimly 
when  those  she  loves  suffer.  She  believes  that  it  is  our  lot, 
and  that  it  braces  us  and  does  us  good,  and  she  would 
shield  no  one  from  even  unnecessary  pain;  she  weeps 
with  the  sufferer,  but  is  convinced  it  is  all  for  the  best. 
Well,  let  her  continue  in  her  dreary  beliefs;  she  has  no 
garden  to  teach  her  the  beauty  and  the  happiness  of  holi- 
ness, nor  does  she  in  the  least  desire  to  possess  one;  her 
convictions  have  the  sad  gray  colouring  of  the  dingy 
361 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

streets  and  houses  she  Hves  amongst  —  the  sad  colour  of 
humanity  in  masses.  Submission  to  what  people  call 
their  "lot"  is  simply  ignoble.  If  your  lot  makes  you  cry 
and  be  wretched,  get  rid  of  it  and  take  another;  strike  out 
for  yourself;  don't  listen  to  the  shrieks  of  your  relations, 
to  their  gibes  or  their  entreaties;  don't  let  your  own  mi- 
croscopic set  prescribe  your  goings-out  and  comings-in; 
don't  be  afraid  of  public  opinion  in  the  shape  of  the  neigh- 
bour in  the  next  house,  when  all  the  world  is  before  you 
new  and  shining,  and  everything  is  possible,  if  you  only  be 
energetic  and  independent  and  seize  opportunity  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck. 

From  Elizabeth  and  her  German  Garden 


Nichola  Expounds  ''the  Reason  Why"  on  Christ- 
mas Eve     ^^^     ^=^     ^=^     ^=^     ^^^:^    ^^::i^    ^^^ 

"  "DUT  the  whole  world  helps  along,"  she  said  shrilly, 

^-^   "or  else  we  should  tear  each  other's  eyes  out.     What 

do  I  do,  me  ?     I  do  not  put  fruit  peel  in  the  waste  paper  to 

worrit  the  ragman,     I  do  not  put  potato  jackets  in  the  stove 

to  worrit  the  ashman.     I  do  not  burn  the  bones  because  I 

think  of  the  next  poor  dog.     What  crumbs  are  left  I  lay 

always,  always  on  the  back  fence  for  the  birds.     I  kill  no 

living  thing  but  spiders  —  which  the  devil  made.     Our 

Lady  knows  I  do  very  little.     But  if  I  was  the  men  with 

pockets  on  I'd  find  a  way!     I'd  find  a  way,  me,"  said 

Nichola,  wagging  her  old  gray  head. 

"Pockets?"  Hobart  repeated,  puzzled. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,  yes  !"  Nichola  cried.     "Pockets 

■ —  money  —  give  !"  she  illustrated  in  pantomime.     "What 

362 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

can  I  do?  On  Thursday  nights  I  take  what  sweets  are  in 
this  house,  what  flowers  are  on  all  the  plants,  and  I  carry 
them  to  a  hospital  I  know.  If  you  could  see  how  they  wait 
for  me  on  the  beds !  What  can  I  do  ?  The  good  God  gave 
me  almost  no  pockets.  It  is  as  he  says,"  she  nodded  to. 
Pelleas, '' Helping  is  why.  Yah !  None  of  what  you  say  is 
so.     Mem,  I  didn't  get  no  time  to  frost  the  nutcakes." 

Zona  Gale  in  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 

The  Changing  Spirit  of  Christmastide     ^^     ^^ 

HTHE  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habit 
■*^  throughout  every  class  of  society,  have  always  been 
fond  of  those  festivals  and  holidays  which  agreeably  in- 
terrupt the  stillness  of  country  life;  and  they  were,  in 
former  days,  particularly  observant  of  the  religious  and 
social  rites  of  Christmas.  It  is  inspiring  to  read  even  the 
dry  details  which  some  antiquarians  have  given  of  the  quaint 
humours,  the  burlesque  pageants,  the  complete  abandon 
ment  to  mirth  and  good-fellowship,  with  which  this  festi- 
val was  celebrated.  It  seemed  to  throw  open  every  door, 
and  unlock  every  heart.  It  brought  the  peasant  and  the 
peer  together,  and  blended  all  ranks  in  one  warm  generous 
flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The  old  halls  of  castles  and 
manor-houses  resounded  with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas 
carol,  and  their  ample  boards  groaned  under  the  weight  of 
hospitality.  Even  the  poorest  cottage  welcomed  the  fes- 
tive season  with  green  decorations  of  bay  and  holly  —  the 
cheerful  fire  glanced  its  rays  through  the  lattice,  inviting 
the  passenger  to  raise  the  latch,  and  join  the  gossip  knot 
huddled  round  the  hearth,  beguiling  the  long  evening  with 
legendary  jokes  and  oft-told  Christmas  tales. 
3^3 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refinement  is  the 
havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holiday  customs  1 
It  has  completely  taken  off  the  sharp  touchings  and  spirited 
reliefs  of  these  embellishments  of  life,  and  has  worn  down 
society  into  a  more  smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly  a  less 
characteristic  surface.  Many  of  the  games  and  ceremonials 
of  Christmas  have  entirely  disappeared,  and  like  the  sherris 
sack  of  old  Falstaff,  are  become  matters  of  speculation  and 
dispute  among  commentators.  They  flourished  in  times 
full  of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men  enjoyed  life  roughly, 
but  heartily  and  vigorously;  times  wild  and  picturesque, 
which  have  furnished  poetry  with  its  richest  materials,  and 
the  drama  with  its  most  attractive  variety  of  characters  and 
manners.  The  world  has  become  more  worldly.  There  is 
more  of  dissipation,  and  less  of  enjoyment.  Pleasure  has 
expanded  into  a  broader,  but  shallower  stream,  and  has 
forsaken  many  of  those  deep  and  quiet  channels  where  it 
flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm  bosom  of  domestic  life. 
Society  has  acquired  a  more  enlightened  and  elegant  tone; 
but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong  local  peculiarities,  its 
home-bred  feelings,  its  honest  fireside  delights.  The 
traditionary  customs  of  golden-hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal 
hospitalities,  and  lordly  wassailings,  have  passed  away  with 
the  baronial  castles  and  stately  manor-houses  in  which  they 
were  celebrated.  They  comported  with  the  shadowy  hall, 
the  great  oaken  gallery,  and  the  tapestried  parlour,  but  are 
unfitted  to  the  light  showy  saloons  and  gay  drawing-rooms 
of  the  modern  villa. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  honours, 

Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement   in 

England.     It  is  gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  com 

pletely  aroused  which  seems  to  hold  so  powerful  a  place  in 

364 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

every  English  bosom.  The  preparations  making  on  every 
side  for  the  social  board  that  is  again  to  unite  friends  and 
kindred ;  the  presents  of  good  cheer  passing  and  repassing, 
those  tokens  of  regard,  and  quickeners  of  kind  feelings; 
the  evergreens  distributed  about  houses  and  churches,  em- 
blems of  peace  and  gladness;  all  these  have  the  most 
pleasing  effect  in  producing  fond  associations,  and  kindling 
benevolent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of  the  waits,  rude 
as  may  be  their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon  the  mid-watches  of  a 
winter  night  with  the  effect  of  perfect  harmony.  As  I  have 
been  awakened  by  them  in  that  still  and  solemn  hour, 
''when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon  man,"  I  have  listened  with 
a  hushed  delight,  and,  connecting  them  with  the  sacred  and 
joyous  occasion,  have  almost  fancied  them  into  another 
celestial  choir,  announcing  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind. 

Washington  Irving 


Charles  Kingsley's  Prayer  for  Christmas  Peace 

/'"^HRISTMAS  peace  is  God's ;  and  he  must  give  it  him- 
^^  self,  with  his  own  hand,  or  we  shall  never  get  it.  Go 
then  to  God  himself.  Thou  art  his  child,  as  Christmas  Day 
declares ;  be  not  afraid  to  go  unto  thy  Father.  Pray  to  him ; 
tell  him  what  thou  wantest:  say,  "Father,  I  am  not  moder- 
ate, reasonable,  forbearing.  I  fear  I  cannot  keep  Christ- 
mas aright  for  I  have  not  a  peaceful  Christmas  spirit  in 
me ;  and  I  know  that  I  shall  never  get  it  by  thinking,  and 
reading,  and  understanding ;  for  it  passes  all  that,  and  lies 
far  away  beyond  it,  does  peace,  in  the  very  essence  of 
thine  undivided,  unmoved,  absolute,  eternal  Godhead, 
which  no  change  nor  decay  of  this  created  world,  nor  sin 

365 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

or  folly  of  men  or  devils,  can  ever  alter;    but  which  abideth 
forever  what  it  is,  in  perfect  rest,  and  perfect  power  and 
perfect  love.     O  Father,  give  me  thy  Christmas  peace." 
From  Town  and  Country  Sermons 


Under  the  Holly  Bough    •<^>     ^:^     ^^     ^;:>     ^;^ 

^ZE  who  have  scorned  each  other, 
-*-      Or  injured  friend  or  brother, 

In  this  fast  fading  year; 
Ye  who,  by  word  or  deed, 
Have  made  a  kind  heart  bleed. 

Come  gather  here. 

Let  sinned  against,  and  sinning, 
Forget  their  strife's  beginning, 

And  join  in  friendship  now: 
Be  links  no  longer  broken. 
Be  sweet  forgiveness  spoken. 

Under  the  Holly  Bough. 

Ye  who  have  loved  each  other, 
Sister  and  friend  and  brother. 

In  this  fast  fading  year: 
Mother  and  sire  and  child, 
Young  man  and  maiden  mild. 

Come  gather  here; 

And  let  your  hearts  grow  fonder, 
As  memory  shall  ponder 

Each  past  unbroken  vow. 
Old  loves  and  younger  wooing 
366 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

Are  sweet  in  the  renewing, 
Under  the  Holly  Bough. 

Ye  who  have  nourished  sadness, 
Estranged  from  hope  and  gladness, 

In  this  fast  fading  year; 
Ye,  with  o'erburdened  mind, 
Made  aliens  from  your  kind, 

Come  gather  here. 

Let  not  the  useless  sorrow 
Pursue  you  night  and  morrow. 

If  e'er  you  hoped,  hope  now  — 
Take  heart ;  —  uncloud  your  faces. 
And  join  in  our  embraces. 

Under  the  Holly  Bough. 

Charles  Mackay 


Christmas  Music       <:i^     ^:^     ^;^     ^:::y     ^^^     '<;^ 

iy /TANY  elements  mix  in  the  Christmas  of  the  present, 
■'■  ■*•  partly,  no  doubt,  under  the  form  of  vague  and  ob- 
scure sentiment,  partly  as  time-honoured  reminiscences, 
partly  as  a  portion  of  our  own  life.  But  there  is  one  phase  of 
poetry  which  we  enjoy  more  fully  than  any  previous  age. 
That  is  music.  Music  is  of  all  the  arts  the  youngest,  and 
of  all  can  free  herself  most  readily  from  symbols.  A  fine 
piece  of  music  moves  before  us  like  a  living  passion,  which 
needs  no  form  or  color,  no  interpreting  associations,  to 
onvey  its  strong  but  indistinct  significance.  Each  man 
there  finds  his  soul  revealed  to  him,  and  enabled  to  assume 
a  cast  of  feeling  in  obedience  to  the  changeful  sound.  In 
367 


The  Book  of  Christmas 

this  manner  all  our  Christmas  thoughts  and  emotions  have 
been  gathered  up  for  us  by  Handel  in  his  drama  of  the 
Messiah.  To  Englishmen  it  is  almost  as  well  known 
and  necessary  as  the  Bible.  But  only  one  who  has  heard 
its  pastoral  episode  performed  year  after  year  from  child- 
hood in  the  hushed  cathedral,  where  pendent  lamps  or 
sconces  make  the  gloom  of  aisle  and  choir  and  airy  column 
half  intelligible,  can  invest  this  music  with  long  associations 
of  accumulated  awe.  To  his  mind  it  brings  a  scene  at 
midnight  of  hills  clear  in  the  starlight  of  the  East,  with 
white  flocks  scattered  on  the  down.  The  breath  of  winds 
that  come  and  go,  the  bleating  of  the  sheep,  with  now  and 
then  a  tinkling  bell,  and  now  and  then  the  voice  of  an 
awakened  shepherd,  is  all  that  breaks  the  deep  repose. 
Overhead  shimmer  the  bright  stars,  and  low  to  west  lies  the 
moon,  not  pale  and  sickly  (he  dreams)  as  in  our  North, 
but  golden,  full,  and  bathing  distant  towers  and  tall  aerial 
palms  with  floods  of  light.  Such  is  a  child's  vision,  begotten 
by  the  music  of  the  symphony;  and  when  he  wakes  from 
trance  at  its  low  silver  close,  the  dark  cathedral  seems  glow- 
ing with  a  thousand  angel  faces,  and  all  the  air  is  tremulous 
with  angel  wings.  Then  follow  the  solitary  treble  voice  and 
the  swift  chorus. 

John  Addington  Symonds 


A  Christmas  Sermon      -^^i^y      ^:>     ^^      ^^     ^^ 

'  I  ^O  be  honest,  to  be  kind  —  to  earn  a  little  and  to  spend 

-*-     a  little  less,  to  make  upon  the  whole  a  family  happier 

for  his  presence,  to  renounce  when  that  shall  be  necessary 

and  not  be  embittered,  to  keep  a  few  friends  but  those  with- 

368 


The  Christmas  Spirit 

out  capitulation  —  above  all,  on  the  same  grim  condition, 
to  keep  friends  with  himself  —  here  is  a  task  for  all  that  a 
man  has  of  fortitude  and  delicacy.  He  has  an  ambitious 
soul  who  would  ask  more;  he  has  a  hopeful  spirit  who 
should  look  in  such  an  enterprise  to  be  successful. 

There  is  indeed  one  element  in  human  destiny  that  not 
blindness  itself  can  controvert:  whatever  else  we  are  in- 
tended to  do,  we  are  not  intended  to  succeed ;  failure  is  the 
fate  allotted.  It  is  so  in  every  art  and  study ;  it  is  so  above 
all  in  the  continent  art  of  living  well.  Here  is  a  pleasant 
thought  for  the  year's  end  or  for  the  end  of  life:  Only  self- 
deception  will  be  satisfied,  and  there  need  be  no  despair  for 
the  despairer. 

Robert  Loms  Stevenson  in  A  Christmas  Sermon 

By  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


369 


The  Gentlest  Art 

A  Choice  of  Letters  by  Entertaining  Hands 
Edited  by  E.  V.  LUCAS 
An  anthology  of  letter-writing  so  human,  interesting,  and  amus- 
ing from  first  to  last,  as  almost  to  inspire  one  to  attempt  the 
restoration  of  the  lost  art. 

"  There  is  hardly  a  letter  among  them  all  that  one  would  have 

left  out,  and  the  book  is  of  such  pleasant  size  and  appearance, 

that  one  would  not  have  it  added  to,  either."  —  The  New  York 

Times. 

"  The  author  has  made  his  selections  with  admirable  care.    We 

do  not  miss  a  single  old  favorite.     He  has  given  us  all  that  is 

best  in  letter-writing,  and  the  classification  under  such  heads  as 

'  Children   and  Grandfathers,'    '  The   Familiar   Manner,'   '  The 

Grand  Style,'  '  Humorists  and  Oddities '  is  everything  that  can 

be  desired." —  Tke  Argonaut. 

"  Letters  of  news  and  of  gossip,  of  polite  nonsense,  of  humor 

and  pathos,  of  friendship,  of  quiet  reflection,  stately  letters  in 

the  grand  manner,  and  naive  letters  by  obscure  and  ignorant 

folk." 

C/otA,  $1.2 J  net 

The  Friendly  Craft 

Edited  by  ELIZABETH  D.  HANSCOM 

In  this  volume  the  author  has  done  for  American  letters  what 
Mr.  Lucas  did  for  English  in  "  The  Gentlest  Art." 

"...  An  unusual  anthology.  A  collection  of  American  letters, 
some  of  them  written  in  the  Colonial  period  and  some  of  them 
yesterday;  all  of  them  particularly  human;  many  of  them 
charmingly  easy  and  conversational,  as  pleasant,  bookish  friends 
talk  in  a  fortunate  hour.  The  editor  of  this  collection  has  an 
unerring  taste  for  literary  quality  and  a  sense  of  humor  which 
shows  itself  in  prankish  headlines.  ...  It  is  a  great  favor  to 
the  public  to  bring  together  in  just  this  informal  way  the  delight- 
ful letters  of  our  two  centuries  of  history."  —  The  Independent. 
"  There  should  be  a  copy  of  this  delightful  book  in  the  collec- 
tion of  every  lover  of  that  which  is  choice  in  literature."  —  The 
New  York  Times. 

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AMONG  THEM  ARE: 


Addison,  John.     Essays. 

Aphorisms  and  Reflections.    By  T.  H. 

Huxley. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  Poems. 
Art  of  Worldly  Wisdom.    By  B.  Gra- 

cian.     Trans,  by  J.  Jacobs. 
Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.     By 

O.  W.  Holmes. 
Bacon,  Sir  Francis.     Essays.     Ed.  by 

W.  A.  Wright. 
Ballad  Book.     Ed.  by  W.  Allingham. 
Balladen    und  Romanzen.     Ed.  by  C. 

A.  Buchheim. 
Book  of  Golden   Deeds.     By   C.  M. 

Yonge. 
Book   of  Golden   Thoughts.      By   H, 

Attwell. 
Book  of  Worthies.     By  Charlotte  M. 

Yonge. 
Byron,  Lord.     Poems.    Chosen  by  M. 

Arnold. 
Children's  Garland,  The.    Selected  by 

C.  Patmore. 
Children's  Treasury  of  Lyrical  Poetry. 

Selected  by  F.  T.  Palgrave. 
Christian   Year,   The.     By   J.   Keble. 

Ed.  by  Charlotte  M.  Yonge. 
Clough,  A.  H.     Poems   by.     Ed.    by 

W.  Benham. 
Cowper,  W.    Letters  of.     Ed.  by  Mrs. 

Oliphant. 
Deutsche  Lyrik.     Selected  by  C.  A. 

Buchheim. 
Epictetus.  Golden  Sayings  of.     Ed.  by 

H.  Crossley. 
Golden  Treasury  Psalter. 
Golden   Treasury  of  the   Best   Songs 

and  Lyrics.     By  F.  T.  Palgrave. 
—  —  Second  Series. 
Fairy  Book.     Selected  by  Mrs.  D.  M. 

Craik. 
House  of  Atreus,  The.    By  ^Eschylus. 

Trans,  by  E.  A.  Morshead. 
Hydriotaphia,etc.     By  Sir  T.  Browne. 

Ed.  by  W.  A.  Greenhill. 
Jest  Book.   Arranged  by  Mark  Lemon. 
Keats,  John.     Poems.     Ed.  by  F.  T. 

Palgrave. 
Landor,  W.   S.   Poems.     Selected   by 

E.  S.  Colvin. 
Lieder  und  Gedichte.     By  H.  Heine. 


London  Lyrics.     By  F.  Locker-Lamp 

son. 
Lyre  Francaise,  La.     Arranged   with 

notes  by  G.  Masson. 
Lyric  Love.     An  Anthology.     Ed.  by 

W.  Watson. 
Marcus  Aurclius  Antoninus.  Thoughts 

of.     By  G    H.  Rendall. 
Mohammed,  Speeches  and  Table  Talk. 

Ed.  by  S.  Lane-Poole. 
Moore,   Thos.     Poems.      Selected  by 

C.  L.  Falkiner. 
Old    Age;     Friendship.      By    Cicero. 

Trans,  by  E.  S.  Schuckburgh. 
Phaedrus,      Lysis,     etc.      By     Plato, 

Trans,  by  J.  Wright. 
Pilgrim's  Progress     By  John  Bunyan. 
Religio  Medici.     By  Sir  T.  Browne. 

Ed.  by  W.  A.  Greenhill. 
Republic.     By  Plato.     Trans,  by  J.  L. 

Davies  &  D.  J.  Vaughan. 
Robinson  Crusoe.     By  D.  Defoe.    Ed. 

by  J.  W.  Clark. 
Rossetti,  C.     Poems.     Chosen  by  W. 

M.  Rossetti. 
Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam.     By  E. 

Fitzgerald. 
Shakespeare,  W.    Songs  and  Sonnets. 

Ed.  by  F.  T.  Palgrave. 
Shelley,  P.  B.     Poems.     Ed.  by  S.  A. 

Brooke. 
Southey,  R.     Poems.     Chosen  by  E. 

Dowden. 
Steele.    R.     Essays.      Ed.    by   L.  E. 

Steele. 
Tales     from     Shakespeare.      By     C. 

Lamb. 
Tennyson,  Lord  Alfred. 

Idylls  of  the  King. 

In  Memoriam. 

Lyrical  Poems.     Ed.    by  F.  T.  Pal- 
grave. 

The  Princess. 
Theocritus,   Bion  and  Moschus.     Ed. 

by  A.  Lang. 
Tom    Brown's    Schooldays.       By    T. 

Hughes. 
Trial    and    Death    of    Socrates.      By 

Plato.     Trans   by  A.  J.  Church. 
Wordsworth,    W.     Poems.      Selected 

by  M.  Arnold. 


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The  Ladies'  Pageant 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

"An  unusual  collection  of  poetry  and  prose  in  comment  upon 
the  varying  aspects  of  the  feminine  form  and  nature,  wherein  is 
set  forth  for  the  delectation  of  man  what  great  writers  from 
Chaucer  to  Ruskin  have  said  about  the  eternal  feminine.  The 
result  is  a  decidedly  companionable  volume."  —  Town  and 
Country. 

"To  possess  this  book  is  to  fill  your  apartment  —  your  lonely 
farm  parlor  or  little  '  flat '  drawing-room  in  which  few  sit  — 
with  the  rustle  of  silks  and  the  swish  of  lawns;  to  comfort  your 
ear  with  seemly  wit  and  musical  laughter;  and  to  remind  you 
how  sweet  an  essence  ascends  from  the  womanly  heart  to  the 
high  altar  of  the  Maker  of  Women." —  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

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Some  Friends  of  Mine 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

At  last  the  sterner  sex  is  to  have  its  literary  dues.  In  this 
little  volume  Mr.  Lucas  has  essayed  to  do  for  men  what  he  did 
for  the  heroines  of  life  and  poetry  and  fiction  in  '  The  Ladies' 
Pageant.'  No  other  editor  has  so  deft  a  hand  for  work  of  this 
character,  and  this  volume  is  as  rich  a  fund  of  amusement  and 
instruction  as  all  the  previous  ones  of  the  author  have  been. 
"  Mr.  Lucas  does  not  compile.  What  he  does,  rather,  is  to 
assemble  a  quantity  of  rough  material,  quaried  from  the  classics, 
and  then  to  fashion  out  of  it  a  fabric  stamped  with  his  own  per- 
sonality. .  .  .  He  makes  a  little  book  in  which  old  poems  and 
bits  of  old  prose  take  on  a  new  character,  through  being  placed 
in  a  relation  to  one  another  determined  by  Mr.  Lucas'  peculiar 
fancy.  .  .  .  He  will  always  be  sure  of  an  appreciative  public." 
—  The  New  York  Tribune. 

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London's  Lure 

An  Anthology  in  Prose  and  Verse 

By  HELEN  and  LEWIS  MELVILLE 

A  selection  of  what  poets  and  prose  writers  have  said  about 
the  great  metropolis  —  that  capital  of  all  Europe  which  has 
for  most  Americans  the  closest  attraction  and  the  most  last- 
ing charm.  Curious  out-of-the-way  places  and  equally 
curious  out-of-the-way  people  are  tucked  away  in  some 
parts  of  the  book,  while  elsewhere,  Westminster  Abbey, 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  other  of  the  more  renowned  parts 
of  the  city  come  in  for  their  share  of  treatment.  Every 
section  of  London  is  here  and  all  the  different  viewpoints 
from  which  it  has  been  regarded,  as  well.  The  authors 
selected  range  from  Herrick,  Shelley,  Lamb,  and  Hazlitt 
to  Hood,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Wilde. 

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The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

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London  was  discussed  in  "  London's  Lure."  A  few  pages 
from  old  books  of  travel  and  correspondence  show  how  the 
city  changed  in  aspect  through  the  years.  Then  follow 
more  or  less  impressionistic  pictures  of  different  phases  of 
the  modern  city,  from  the  yeasty,  seething  East  Side,  west 
to  where  old  Greenwich  grimly  holds  its  own;  from  the 
"granite  cliffs"  of  lower  Broadway  to  where  by  night  "the 
serpent  of  stars  "  winds  around  Morningside. 

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